DAMAGED
by JoaniexJony
Summary: A test of courage to free a child sets John on an unwilling journey, where he has to find his past not only to escape oppression, but also to survive. Shep whump and team angst, with my favourite doc Carson
1. Chapter 1

A test of courage to free a child starts John on an unwilling journey, where he has to find his past not only to fight oppression, but also to survive. Shep whump and team angst, with my favourite doc Carson.

Warnings:- Only a little bad language, but it will be rated T for violence later on.

Disclaimer:- SGA isn't mine…If it had been, I'd be living in Malibu!

This fic is for my friend **Sterenyk Strey – Happy Birthday! **And many thanks to the wonderful **shepsgirl72 **who despite still writing her own fabulous story, **'The Three Gates.'** still offered to act as beta, of course all mistakes are mine.

I should also say, as I am still editing, updates will be no later than every second day.

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 1

Sometimes, it didn't pay to get out of bed, although the irony he would soon be heading back to the sack wasn't lost on John, as he cracked open his lids to meet the concerned blue eyes of Carson Beckett.

Last thing he could remember was standing in line chatting to Lorne, while staring at McKay, daring him to take the last blueberry muffin. The next…well that was a bit of a blur. Now he was lying on something wet and from the pain piercing through his skull, he just hoped it wasn't his own blood.

John raised a hand to examine said substance when it was gently, but firmly put back down again by Beckett. "Don't move, Colonel. I need you to keep as still as possible in case there's any damage to your neck or spine – you took quite a fall," Carson informed him in that clipped tone he used when worried, before barking orders to an unseen party for a neck brace and backboard.

"I'm fine, Carson…honest. I just slipped, no biggie." Surprised at the slight slur in his voice, he stole a look at Beckett, hoping to avoid the humiliation of being wheeled like Hannibal Lector out of his own mess. Though judging by the determined expression on the doc's face, John already knew it was pretty much a lost cause.

He groaned at the thought…a big mistake, as Carson turned round and started flashing that light thingy into his eyes, making him wince. "How bad is your pain, Colonel, on a scale from one to five?" he asked, staring at him like some kind of lie detector, which come to think of it wasn't far off the mark.

"One…" Then as he saw Carson draw him a suspicious look, thought better of it and decided to be honest. "Okay, maybe one and a half, but no more than a two." John tried a grin, but it wasn't easy with the restrictive collar round his neck, and he soon realised it must have looked more like a grimace…crap. He really wasn't getting out of this one.

"John! What happened?" Teyla called out, and he looked up to see her standing there along with Ronon. It was obvious from the smirk on the big guy's face he'd already sussed he wasn't badly hurt, but Teyla was already kneeling beside him searching his face with those big brown eyes, really anxious.

"It's okay, Teyla, I'm fine…"

John had just started to answer when McKay interrupted. "Actually, Sheppard, Beckett's right…that was quite a fall you took." John sighed as he watched Rodney dig into the last muffin…his, before continuing to speak with his mouth half-full. "It was just like one of those Laurel and Hardy movies. One minute he was on his feet, then the next he went flying, oh - must have been a good two feet into the air. It was pretty impressive actually."

That was an image John would rather not have known about, only too aware he would now be a star performer on the comedy circuit too. His humiliation now complete, knowing footage of his impromptu performance would soon be copied from the security cameras, to make its way into every laptop all over the base. This day really wasn't starting well.

"Right, Colonel, we're good to go." Beckett adjusted the straps around his chest and legs so that he was locked in tight, something else he really hated, before the doc gave the nod to the orderlies signalling it was time to leave.

A long line of concerned faces stared down at him as the stretcher was slowly wheeled away and apart from his own embarrassment, John felt like a heel for worrying everyone. For a brief moment he considered trying the smiling thing again to let them know he was okay, but then quickly remembered that didn't work too well last time, so settled on closing his eyes instead, just wanting it all to be over.

ooooOoooo

Later, lying bored rigid against the pillows, the diagnosis was just as he'd tried to tell Beckett in the first place. There was no life or death scenario, just a few stitches and a sore head from a mild concussion. Unfortunately, though, he was stuck there for a mind-numbing twenty-four hours, all because he'd apparently blacked out for a whole five minutes.

John tried to convince Carson that it wasn't necessary because he felt fine, but Beckett, of course, had insisted. He'd been sorely tempted to argue the point, but one glance at the medic's set jaw made him back down, knowing the MO's authority over all things medical was paramount, and he really didn't want to piss off the man who could ground his sorry ass into next week. Therefore, he was behaving like a good little patient, trying not to whine too much and counting down each tedious hour, bored out of his skull.

So far he'd counted three hundred and ninety-two floor tiles between him and the end of the ward, and the ceiling was next, but he was keeping that for later to give him something to look forward to. Since video's games were out as they made his head ache, John was contemplating begging for some paperwork to do, when he saw Teyla striding into the ward. From her tense expression clearly upset, but more than that, the heightened flush on her pretty face told him she was furious.

Normally by now, the serene Athosian would have taken a seat and asked how he was, but today she was pre-occupied. Clearly agitated, pacing up and down the short distance between him and the neighbouring bed, with her hands balled into fists held rigidly by her sides.

John could only remember ever seeing her that angry a couple of times before. The first after she'd been accused by Bates of attracting the Wraith to the then Alpha site, the second when they'd went head to head over his refusal to let her go on missions while pregnant with Torren. There was, of course, one other… her last exchange with Michael. Teyla's rage at the man who had tried to take her child so all consuming she'd watched, her expression deadly calm, as her foot ground painfully into his knuckles until he'd lost his tenuous hold and the surprised former Wraith fell to his death.

Unaware what caused her agitation this time, John waited for a few moments, trying to figure out which angle to use on his team mate, when she suddenly spoke.

"We have to do something. I cannot, and will not stand by while these barbarians treat that poor child like an animal." Teyla practically spat out the words, then turned to him with tears glistening in her eyes.

"Teyla, why don't you come and sit down, then you can tell me what happened?" John spoke in a slow deliberate tone, hoping it might help to calm her down, but it only partly worked as she slammed her butt down in the chair next to the bed, as far from relaxed as you could get, perching rigidly on the edge of the seat. "Okay…how about we start from the beginning? You were visiting the Pallonian's today, right?"

"Yes," she answered, her voice still clipped, but at least sounding a little calmer as she started her story. "They are ranchers, raising morlacks…a bit like your cattle on earth. Lorne's team made this discovery during a routine mission last week, so Mr Woolsey asked me to return and discuss a trade agreement with them for a fresh source of meat, just in case we were ever cut off from Earth again."

"And it was a good plan, so what happened?" he asked, wondering what could have gone wrong on such a simple mission.

Teyla continued. "I spoke with their chief and after the negotiations, he asked if I would wait outside in order he could discuss our offer with the elders. It was then, while I was wandering around the encampment, I saw a young boy. He was no more than six, maybe younger, and chained up by the neck to the side of one of the tents."

He could see tears welling up in her eyes, and there was silence for a moment before she spoke with a break in her voice. "I went over to talk to him, but he was terrified. Even cowering into the side, I could see the poor child was filthy and just skin and bones. So when I went back into the tent, I asked the chief about him and he told me the boy was an orphan who had been sent to live with his last living relative, an uncle, after his parents died, but the man didn't want him. Do you know why?" she raged, her voice shaking with emotion. "Because he was deaf, _damaged_ goods, as the chief put it, and his disability is considered unlucky amongst their tribe."

John watched as Telya turned to him, her haunted expression heartbreaking. "It was obvious none of them wanted the child, so I asked if he could return with me. I told him that the boy could have a home with my people on the mainland, I even pleaded with him… but he wasn't prepared to discuss the matter with a mere woman. He told me if we wanted to take him, I had to send back the male leader of our _**tribe**_ to negotiate an arrangement."

Teyla stood up and started pacing again, visibly upset about the boy, but the strong, determined Athosian was also clearly angry at being dismissed in such a manner. "We must do something, John," she pleaded. "We can't leave him to live the rest of his life being treated like an animal."

By now, the tears she'd been holding at bay were streaming down her face, and he really hated seeing her so upset, so awkwardly taking her hand, John gave it a squeeze. "And we won't, Teyla. Not if I have anything to do with it. Tell you what, how about you get back in touch with the chief and ask for a meeting tomorrow after I'm sprung out of here? Let's see if we can't work out some sort of trade to bring the kid home."

ooooOoooo

Westerns were his all time favourite as a kid. John Wayne, of course, being his hero then, but John had also loved Saturday morning re-runs of 'The Virginian', 'The Big Valley', and his all time favourite 'The High Chaparral.' Manolitto Montoya everything he'd aspired to as a young boy, handsome, good with the ladies, and very brave, standing shoulder to shoulder with Big John, Buck and Blue Boy as together they risked life and limb to protect their ranch against the apache Indians.

So far, John could see quite a few similarities between the old wild west and PX4 597, as the undulating golden sands of the desert stretched into the horizon, without so much as a tree or river in sight, the rising temperature already feeling uncomfortable, despite being early in the morning. In many ways, the Pallonian settlement itself looked oddly familiar, an assortment of tents, though not tepees, forming a ragged line up either side with a corral filled with the Pegasus equivalent of horses, set off to one side. At least he assumed the animals were used for transport, as they looked mostly the same, sans tails, besides, it seemed a reasonable guess given the leather saddles slung carelessly over the length of the wooden fence.

There was something else familiar too, as just like in the movies the town looked like it had been dropped there. With nothing else remotely close…a self contained unit, in the middle of nowhere.

Part of him half expected Cochise to pop out at any second, but instead of the imposing figure of the Apache chief, a frail elderly man appeared, barely five feet tall with steel grey hair simply plaited, lying flat against his back. He appeared friendly enough, his crooked smile revealing several missing teeth as he extended his wrinkled hand in greeting. "Welcome, Colonel Sheppard. It is good to meet you. My name is Falack Ransen, head of this tribe."

John flashed his most engaging smile, then nodded to the three people by his side. "Thank you. I understand you have already met my colleagues Teyla Emmagan and Ronon Dex, but I'd also like to introduce our doctor, Carson Beckett."

He'd nearly said 'medicine man', but figured neither guy would be happy with that description, especially not Carson, who was sweating buckets, his face scarlet from a combination of the long walk from the 'gate and the blazing sun. In a way, John figured the doc only had himself to blame, as it was his choice to come, insisting he wanted to check the kid out before they took him back, except by the surreptitious glances he was getting, it was clear that wasn't Carson's only reason. His ears were still ringing from the flea in his ear the Scot had given him, about irresponsible military commanders going off world so soon after being released from the infirmary, the two having had a standoff for a while until Teyla told him the whole sorry tale, and Carson reluctantly gave way.

Truth be told, John had to admit he wasn't feeling great. His back was sore, probably black and blue as a result of yesterday's comedy routine, and his head still ached, none of which he'd told Becket, of course, putting on his game face as he suppressed the winces when he'd climbed out of bed.

As their small contingent made their way through the encampment, John couldn't help but notice eyes full of distrust and suspicion followed them as they strolled along. Curious children who made to come over, hastily pulled inside by anxious parents, which by the expressions of his teammates was making them all feel uneasy, almost as if the bogie man had come to town.

Teyla hadn't mentioned anything about receiving a hostile reception, and when he looked around she seemed as surprised as he was. Still, he kept smiling, holding his P90 close to his chest…just in case. John still didn't sense any real danger though, just a nagging feeling of foreboding, which was really weird, given that all the young men were missing, out on the range herding cattle, leaving only the women and elderly to care for the young.

Without Teyla saying a word, he spotted the kid straight away, his situation every bit as bad as she'd said it was. The young, dark-haired boy was filthy, clearly starving and chained up like a dog, trying vainly to find shelter from the rising sun, among the folds of the canvas.

Even Patrick, his own dad, despite not winning any Father of the Year contests, never treated him this way. The manipulative bully had even had a soft spot for their old rough collie, Hudson, who was allowed free range of the Sheppard estate, usually shedding his course black hair in either his or Dave's bed at the end of the day.

John grew enraged at the ignorance of these people, who treated disability as if it somehow made this boy less of a person...like the kid was incapable of feeling or intelligent thought. The boy was damaged goods, the chief had said, except in John's view, it was them who were damaged, a small minded community that persecuted what they didn't understand. Their lack of compassion immoral, punishing a small kid whose only crime was not being able to hear.

He stopped in his tracks, and asked the chief if he could see the boy, bemused at the apprehension etched into the deep wrinkled lines, although after a few tense moments the old man eventually agreed. John ignored his reluctance, as he promptly plopped himself down on the ground just feet from where from the kid was sitting, the small half-starved waif curled in a ball, trying to protect himself against the soaring heat, and now apparently from the terrified look on his face, also from him.

John bided his time and just sat there, avoiding eye contact while the boy got used to his presence. Then slowly, in case he spooked the kid, reached into his pocket and snagged a candy bar and casually broke off a piece then put it in his mouth, making a show of really enjoying it .

It didn't take long after that for the boy's curiosity to get the better of him, and when he sensed a presence beside him, without turning, John left the rest of the bar on the ground. From the corner of his eye, he watched, as a small, grubby hand came and snatched it. The look of pure joy on the kid's face as the flavour hit his mouth, infectious. John smiled, and for a few special moments both man and boy shared the bond that only candy can bring.

When John turned slightly and tentatively offered a second bar, he was pleased there was no hesitation this time. The kid practically grabbing it out of his hand, then after staring at him for a few seconds, broke it in half and gravely offered him the other piece. He wasn't hungry, but knew refusal would have stolen the only pride this small child had left, so ate it in the spirit of which it was given…the ice finally broken. One thing now certain, John when determined that when he left this place, the boy was coming with him.

ooooOoooo

Oppressively hot inside the stuffy tent, John ignored the mounting ache throbbing behind his temple, and the sweat trickling down his tee. He felt miserable, but knew he must make this pitch count to allow the kid to leave - to give him a better life, and a future with people who would care for him and love him for who he was…just like the chance Elizabeth had given him all those years ago. Atlantis had been his salvation, and given the opportunity, John knew it would be Elient's too.

As he laid out the offer, it sounded impressive, even to his ears. Free medical care and supplies, assistance in improving the irrigation in the area, and finally last but not least, an offer of assistance in the event of attack from the Wraith or any other insurgent. Yet the old man seemed apathetic as he sat silent, barely moving as the deeply lined eye's never left his face.

Finally finished, John waited as the stillness became almost unbearable. He was anxious for a response that Falack was in no rush to give, as the chief searched the campfire, apparently struggling with a decision. Then, hearing a slight shuffle in the sand, John glanced up to see the old man staring at him. "I am most impressed by your generous offer, Colonel, but as we are a simple people with few needs, I am going to decline."

"Excuse me?" John asked, surprised, stunned even, at their refusal. Yet more than that, he was worried, because regardless of what happened next, he was taking the boy with him. Aware though, that if he used force, he would probably not just lose his job in Atlantis, but also his commission, so, since that was a route he'd rather not take unless he had to, John decided to try again. "I'm sorry, chief. I didn't mean to sound rude, but most people would give their eye teeth for an offer like that, so what gives?" he asked, puzzled. "If you aren't interested in what's on the table so far, what do you want?"

Falack reached for one of the logs piled at the edge of the tent then threw it into the fire. "Elient may be damaged, a bad omen even, but he is still one of ours, Colonel Sheppard, and if you want to take him, make him one of your own, first of all, as leader, you must show your worth. Are you prepared to do that?"

John didn't like the sound of that, but answered without hesitation. "Sure…what do you want me to do?"

ooooOoooo

TBC

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please review and let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for all the reviews, and the alerts - they really are appreciated! Thanks also to those without accounts who left reviews - I would love to reply, but I'm afraid the system won't allow it.

As to what John fell on? Well I think it was probably Rodney's soda which he cunningly spilt so he could get the last muffin!

Now on with the story...and the whump begins in earnest!

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 2

Carson stumbled, blinded, as his eyes slowly adjusted from the dazzling sunlight to the gloom inside the oppressive tent. Even so, it was as plain as the nose on his face there was something wrong when he caught sight of Colonel Sheppard. The man's jaw was rigid, and his tension palpable, as he watched them assemble in the small enclosed space.

He could barely see, but even in the shadows, the tell tale signs of pain were evident in the tight, fine lines around the strained hazel eye's. Sheppard was suffering, and Carson cursed himself for being so bloody stupid in allowing him to undertake this mission, knowing that he'd disobeyed his own rules and allowed emotion to override his judgement.

The situation with the boy, while clearly desperate, could in his opinion have been easily handled by Lorne, but he'd allowed himself to be worn down by John's determination and Teyla's heartfelt plea. Now it was clear the colonel was ill, and Carson felt guilty for letting down his patient, knowing all head traumas, even seemingly minor concussions, must be handled with care, only too aware that their status could degenerate in the blink of an eye.

"Your headache's worse, isn't it?" he asked, and got the answer he expected in John's wry smile.

"Can't hide anything from you can I, Doc?" When John flinched as he lifted his eyes to meet his, Carson got the confirmation he feared.

"You need to come back with me to Atlantis right now, Colonel," Carson insisted. "I need to get you back under the scanner…"

"It's just a headache, no big deal," John replied. "But it's pretty academic now anyway, since I'll be staying with these people for a while yet, and I figure what I'm feeling at the moment, will be small change compared to what they have in store for me."

"What gives, Sheppard?" Ronon asked, his expression becoming serious as he lifted an eyebrow while placing a firm hand on his blaster for good measure.

John raised his hands in a calming gesture, but for once Carson could tell the Sheppard charm wasn't working. All of his friends sharing the same anxious look, as the full implication of his ominous words hit home. "Look," John said, obviously trying to keep his tone upbeat, but sounding hesitant instead, "the chief wouldn't accept our offer and told me that if we wanted to take the kid, he needed to know we were made of the right kind of stuff. So… as leader, I've agreed to take part in one of their rituals."

"What!" Teyla raged, her confusion and concern evident as she searched John's face for answers. "Why? It is clear by the way the boy is treated, they don't even want him."

He shrugged, a resigned expression his face. "Still, he's still one of theirs, Teyla and if we want to save him, I have to prove our worth."

"This is bullshit, Sheppard," Ronon shouted, glaring at his friend, making it clear he was unable to accept his solution to the problem. "What do they want from you anyway?"

"I have to undergo a test of courage," John replied, in a quiet but determined voice. "But only if the tribe consider me worthy of the challenge."

"Oh, and what exactly does this _test_ involve?" Carson asked, already fearing what the answer would be.

"Don't know," he answered. "But I've agreed to take part, so none of you must interfere…regardless of what happens - is that understood?"

Carson noticed Sheppard stared at each of them in turn, just to make sure they knew it was an order, before he turned to the Satedan. "Ronon, I need you to go back to Atlantis and explain the situation to Woolsey, and take Carson with you. Tell him what I've told you - no interference under any circumstances."

When Ronon went to protest, John put his hand up to interrupt "I'm not crazy about this either, but I'm a big boy and know what I'm doing, so I'll suck up whatever they have planned, and hope that you, Carson, can fix me up once they're done." John gave the medic a weak smile, before turning to the Athosian. "Teyla, I'd like you to stay," he asked, his voice surprisingly quiet. "Falack says I need a witness to ensure fair play, and while I know it will be tough for you to stand by and watch, I also know I can trust you keep a level head and get me and the boy home when it's done. Will you do that for me?"

As Teyla slowly nodded, Carson butted in, surprised at his friend's choice. "Wouldn't it be better if I stayed? After all, I'm the doctor here?"

"Well, Carson, you were my first choice…no offence, Teyla." John smiled at his team mate to take the sting out of any hurt feelings. "But chiefie said your presence would give me an unfair advantage, and to pass the test I have to endure whatever they decide, without any medical assistance."

Carson's heart sank at the thought of what agonies this good man would have to endure in order to save the poor wean chained outside. He was a brave man, John Sheppard, but visibly unwell, and Carson was worried he might not be able cope in his condition. "You're not up to this, John - we both know it, and as much as I despise violence, why don't we just take the wee laddie?" he reasoned. "After all I'm sure you, Ronon and Teyla, could cope with a few old men without any bloodshed."

"He's right, Sheppard - " Ronon joined in, but was prevented saying anything more by John's interruption.

"I have considered it guys, and the truth is, after the way they've treated the kid, I really don't want to put my life in their hands," He said, muttering the last part under his breath. "Still, old men or not, we don't know what they're capable of …remember when we first met the Genii?" John gave them a grim smile. "Besides, there are other children here, and I want to save a boy's life, not risk other kids getting hurt. So please, don't make this make it any harder…just do as I ask."

Just as John finished speaking there was a rustle as the tent flap was pulled open, revealing Falack, who was standing at the entrance. "It's time, Colonel. Please remove your weapons, boots and upper garments, then come with me."

When John removed his shirt, Carson could now see the full extent of the damage caused by the fall, as he was covered with deep livid bruises covering the length and breadth of his back. Ronon grunted, and Teyla's face fell, as Falack produced a stout piece of rope and proceeded to wind it tightly round John's wrists three times, securing them at the back. Yet Sheppard didn't flinch, and his face remained impassive as the chief completed the task, before allowing himself to be led away, only turning to nod as he left. Carson, pretty sure it was an attempt to reassure them, but he could tell no one was fooled. This was wrong…in so many ways.

ooooOoooo

The searing heat of the blazing sun had eventually given way to the icy chill of the desert night, as John knelt shivering, restrained hand and foot, within the circle of light.

Except there was no light, only some small polished stones, hidden by darkness as the biting cold seeped into his bones. He gazed out, but saw nothing save the muted light of campfires burning within the surrounding tents. The people within enjoying their warmth while he was exposed to the elements, aching from skin burned under the sun's blistering rays during the long hot day. Now he was frozen, chilled to the bone as he waited for dawn to come, but knowing with it would only come more discomfort, and yet more pain before the day was finally through.

Scant water had been given throughout his gruelling ordeal, and nothing to eat. There was no blanket to relieve his cold, only rough sand scratching his skin as the sand mites devoured their captive meal. He was in misery, his burned skin tight and sore and his shoulders in agony, strained to their limits after being forced back for hours by the strong rope tying his bound wrists to his feet. Hogtied, like an animal, except their animals ran free while these freaking people sat in judgement of him, and decided if _he_ was worthy to take their challenge.

Once or twice, he thought he'd seen Teyla from the nearly tent, stealing a glance, checking on him, making sure he was alright, but he wasn't, not really. Beckett had been right, he wasn't fit, his head already sore to start with, now pounding so hard he could barely see straight. Shafts of pain spiking through his skull making him feel sick, dizzy, ready to collapse in a heap, but unable to do so, or he would risk losing the challenge and any chance of saving the boy.

Falack had tied him up tight and told him to kneel, then surrounded him with stones. A sacred circle, he'd called it. He'd told him if he could maintain that position, it would show the tribe his humility, his respect for their beliefs, and prove he was worthy to take part in their ritual. And so he had…for hours, but now it was late. All the spectators were gone, the cold, curious eyes tucked up in their warm, cosy tents, yet still he was made to kneel, sleep denied, his body in torment from the strain, both wrists and ankles numb despite the blood dripping from his abraded skin. It was inhuman treatment from people no better than savages, hypocrites, who would torture a man for trying to provide a better life for a child they abused.

At least Elient was inside away from the cold, hopefully being cared for by Teyla. John doubted if this was the norm and wondered if it was done for their benefit? Either way, he was glad. No one should be treated the way he'd been done, especially not a child, and John roused himself, shuffled on the sand with his knees and tried to gain some purchase so he could stay upright. He was aching and exhausted, desperate to lay his head against the ground, but couldn't give way to his body's demand for rest…to do so would be to fail. John knew he must suck it up, stay awake and force himself to endure the rest of the night. Whatever it took to free the boy from this hellish place, and give him the life, and home, he deserved.

ooooOoooo

Dawn arrived, its warm rosy glow illuminating the still bent figure with light. John's head was bowed, but Teyla was relieved when he raised his face at the sound of her footsteps and gave her a weak smile.

His body was covered in burns. There were large, angry blisters on his shoulders, which had caught the brunt of the sun's scorching rays, and his wrists and ankles looked puffy, the raw skin swollen around the bloody ropes. Though it was the glazed, unfocused eyes that worried her most. John, who wasn't well to start with, now looked much worse, and she feared he wouldn't survive the test that lay ahead.

Teyla had persuaded a reluctant Falack to allow her to tend him, convincing the chief it would not break their rules to supply John with some slight relief while the elders made their decision, but he'd refused to allow her to release him from his bonds. Angry, she'd held back from raging at the patronizing man, as it was obvious John had passed the first hurdle by showing his respect and deference for a brutal race who didn't deserve it. Now aware, they couldn't refuse John's participation in the test, but she was worried, about what cruel ordeal he would have to endure next. Teyla couldn't regret seeking help for the boy, but at what cost would it be to her friend? Only too aware, that if John died trying to save the child, his blood would be on her hands.

She remembered fondly the day they'd met. It was Sumner in charge then, and although Teyla disliked thinking ill of the dead, she had found the colonel to be an arrogant man, clearly not interested in pursuing an alliance with her people and dismissive of her, a mere woman, as their leader. John, however, couldn't have been more different.

He'd taken tea with them, but more than that, he'd listened to what she had to say. Right from the start she'd felt a connection between them, she trusted him – a gift she didn't bestow lightly to those new to her acquaintance, but John Sheppard was different from other men. He'd shown her respect and something more, something Teyla couldn't define, but her trust was soon repaid when he saved her life and became the saviour of her people.

Teyla knew John was strong, in mind as well as body, but even he could only endure so much. If only she'd discovered the boy last week, or even the next, he would have been more able to face the ordeal that lay ahead. Coming to the planet already injured by the fall, John looked spent, and now badly weakened by the elements, she was frightened he was ill prepared to survive the trial ahead.

"John," she whispered, although there was no need, for there was no one about to hear them. "How are you?"

He coughed in response, and she pressed a cup of water to his cracked lips, dried by the sun. "Honestly…I've been better." His voice trailed away as he coughed again, so she gave him a little more, but was worried to let him have too much in case he choked.

"Any…word?" he asked, swallowing hard.

"No. The elders are meeting now, but I don't see how they can refuse as you have done what they asked, and survived the day without falling."

"Think I should have gone with Ronon's plan…and just taken the boy." John groaned and started coughing. Teyla was about to rub his back to give him some relief, when she stopped just in time, suddenly aware that if she touched the painful looking burns it would only cause him more distress.

Once the coughing subsided, she gave him another sip of water before replying. "Your instincts were correct, John. I found several rifles stored in the tent I was sleeping in. So if we had tried to abduct the child, I do not doubt they would have retailiated with force."

"Thanks, that's made me feel…better." John grimaced, and she caught his arm just as he started to fall to the side.

"Just as well you didn't do that an hour ago, Colonel Sheppard." Teyla spun round and saw the chief standing there, accompanied by two grey haired men. "You will be pleased to learn that your humility and strength have satisfied our people of your respect. Therefore, you will be allowed to undertake the test of courage later today."

"Gee…thanks." John replied, and Teyla suppressed a smile when she saw Falack draw him a look, suspicious of the sincerity of his response.

"In the meantime we will release you from your bonds and take you to where you may rest."

"So, what is this test?" he titled his head to ask, as Falack went to leave.

"As chief, I am authorised to make decisions as to the welfare of my people. Nevertheless, while I have given you permission to try and gain possession of the boy, it will be his uncle's choice as to which ordeal you will face. Hence the delay, as he and the others are not due to return until later this morning." Falack paused for a moment while giving John a searching gaze. "Take full advantage of the time, Colonel…you are going to need every ounce of strength for what lies ahead."

To John's credit, she noticed he didn't flinch as the sharp knife sliced through the rope, which drew fresh blood as it fell onto the sand. When they pulled him to his feet, she saw his eye's fly open and heard him groan as the men forced him onto unresponsive legs, then realising he couldn't walk, dragged him painfully across the compound into a small tent.

In the relative cool, Teyla bathed his wounds as gently as she could, then bandaged his abraded wrists and ankles, before slathering ointment on the worst of the burns. He grunted in response, but didn't cry out, although the small shallow breaths, and the firm set of his jaw, were a sure sign her ministrations were causing him considerable pain.

Shortly afterwards, a young woman arrived with refreshments…some broth and a jug of fresh water. Though too late for John, as the steady rise and fall showed he was finally, blissfully asleep. After the woman left, Teyla waited a moment before lifting the edge of the canvas and taking a discreet peek outside. Then, confident she wouldn't be disturbed, she retrieved the bag Carson had left in her possession and proceeded to set up an IV, John barely stirring as she slid the needle into the vein of his hand the way Beckett had taught her, before covering it and the bag of saline with a blanket, to keep it hidden - just in case.

Athosians were raised steeped in tradition. Respect, honour and dignity the code by which they lived, and treated others. Teyla, as leader, more aware than anyone, the importance that rituals played in their lives, and she'd always made a point to treat other's beliefs with equal respect. Except these callous people did not deserve it…John did, so she felt no guilt in breaking their rules to help her friend and give him the fluids he badly needed.

Sheppard had told her once he had no faith, as least not of the religious kind, but in her view, John possessed more humanity, more compassion than any of the people here. He was a good man, who didn't deserve the treatment being meted out to him, so she felt no remorse at flaunting a ritual based on persecution and abuse. Teyla only hoped it would be enough, at least to help him stay alive, until she got him home.

ooooOoooo

TBC

Well the whump has begun in earnest, but there is much more to come! Hope you enjoyed the chapter and please review. I really do like to know what you think, plus your reviews give me the motivation I need to keep writing.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank's so much for the reviews and the alerts, as they really do encourage me to keep writing.

As for John? Well he wasn't doing too well when we last left him, and the poor soul still has the test of courage ahead...

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 3

"Off world activation."

Richard Woolsey heard the familiar alert, felt the tremors as the Stargate roared into life, but only rose to the whoosh of the event horizon as it cast its brilliant blue reflection through his window. From the balcony outside his office, he could easily see the 'gate room below, and stared out anxiously, then discovering it was only Major Lorne and his team returning from their survey mission to P95 X42, he swallowed his disappointment.

Not that he wasn't pleased to see their safe return, but he was more concerned with the fate of Colonel Sheppard. Over twenty-four hours had now passed since he foolishly went off world while under par, and according to Ronon, committed himself to undertake something called 'a test of courage' in order to secure the release of an abused deaf child.

Both concerned and angry at his reckless action, Richard sadly realised that their honeymoon period was over. He'd read the colonel's file before joining Atlantis, so knew how headstrong Sheppard could be, even countermanding Weir on at least one occasion. Though he also remembered only too well, the time the colonel had saved him after the replicators had taken over Atlantis. Sheppard, who was based at the SGC at the time, had flagrantly disobeyed General Landry's command to stand down, then risked both his life and career by leading a dangerous rescue mission, not just to save the city, but also General O'Neill and, of course, himself.

While Richard freely admitted Sheppard saved his life, the reality was he only avoided court marshal because Weir had pleaded his case. That, plus the fact his actions also prevented a replicator invasion of Earth. Truth be told, it was this type of bravery that made it difficult to stay annoyed at the man. The sometimes errant colonel a true force of nature, willing to sacrifice his life for his people and it seemed now, for a child he'd only just met.

Beckett had already been to see him, unbidden, and tendered his resignation. The conscientious Scot burdened with guilt for being persuaded to allow his patient to go off world when he was clearly unfit. He hadn't accepted of course. Carson was too good a physician to let go, plus the poor man was already clearly upset…much harder on himself than Richard could ever have been. In any case, on this occasion he couldn't fault Sheppard's reason for wanting to take the mission.

Richard was a private man, with few friends, and even they were unaware he was the product of a broken home. His formative years spend mostly in boarding school with vacations shuttled between parents - Hamptons in the summer with mummy, and Thanksgiving in New York where father ran a successful law firm. Yet even then he barely saw them, usually palmed off to the housekeeper or nanny, their affection shown in the form of gifts he neither wanted nor needed. A salve to their conscience, he supposed, the naked truth being neither of his parents wanted him, too busy with their own lives to be bothered entertaining a child.

Many times over the years, he wondered why he was conceived, but there was never a definitive answer. Richard didn't know, but guessed it was a poor plan to patch a marriage that was already clearly on the rocks, as he was an only child and his parents parted company shortly after he was born.

Divorce was, of course, nothing new, not then or now, and he realised many would consider him pathetic for considering himself hard done by. After all, he'd lived a privileged life and received everything he needed - clothes, toys, cars. Money no object for the rich kid with wealthy parents, except he was never given the thing he wanted most…love.

Abuse took a variety of forms, and while Richard could never lay physical torment on the memory of his parents, he would never forget the mental anguish he suffered as a child. For years he'd wondered what he'd done wrong, feeling guilt for unknown actions that may have caused them to send him away, believing it was his fault they didn't want him.

Of course, he'd since grown up to forge a successful career. That was probably the only time he was grateful for their money, although ironically enough, it was having so much time alone to study that helped him to reap the rewards. It was also the only time he received any praise, both parents happy to boast about their brilliant son and bask in the reflective lime light, though he remembered clearly them choosing to schmooze with the dean rather than stand by his side during his graduation. Nevertheless, he'd eventually managed, if not to forgive, then at least accept his parents' failings were down to weakness, not malice. Sadly, they were selfish people who would probably never realise what they had done.

So, despite his irritation at the actions of his military commander, he understood what he was trying to do. He just prayed Sheppard was successful in saving the boy, and returned alive. As for him, he would make sure the child was given the home he deserved, although the little boy was already lucky, because at least he'd found people who cared. Richard only wished there had been a man like John around for him when he was a child.

ooooOoooo

Someone was hammering, a loud banging noise, which at first John thought was the little man with the mallet who'd been pounding on his brain for the last two days. Relieved when he cracked open an eye to find Teyla sitting by his side, her eyes closed, hands covering her ears, and flinching with each crashing blow.

She looked worried, but needn't have, as he was feeling fine. Well, maybe fine was a slight exaggeration as the headache from hell was still around, only slightly muted after some much need rest. Thankfully though, his burns were certainly less painful than before, as were his muscles, which while still sore, at least felt a little easier.

In fact, he felt much better than he should be under the circumstances, which was really strange, especially given the condition he was in after the gruelling hours he'd spent restrained, subjected to the elements. Too well in fact, even with the benefit of some sleep. There was something weird about the whole feeling good thing, though when he moved his hand, the short, sharp pain told him why…an IV.

"Teyla?" John prised his dry gritty eyes open all the way, surprised to hear his voice crack slightly. He sounded rough.

On hearing him awake, he saw her turn and break into a smile, but he wasn't happy."What's going on?" he asked, accusingly lifting his hand with the IV still attached.

"Carson left his kit with me, and told me to do whatever I deemed necessary to help you." she said, her chin tilted as she gave him a defiant look, and although John was annoyed as her actions could have soured the deal, he was still grateful for her concern.

"Thanks… but we both know that was a risky thing to do. Anyway, I take it you've not received any other visits from our friendly neighbourhood chief?" he asked, curious, as he deftly removed the needle and bag, then hid it by burying it into the sand.

Teyla shook her head. "No, although the young men returned a couple of hours ago, then shortly afterwards started building the structure outside."

John pushed himself up on his side, wincing as the motion pulled on his burns, and clenching his teeth as his muscles, stretched back for hours on end, were still aching.

"Let me see…" he asked, then instantly regretted his curiosity. Horrified as Teyla pulled back the flap to reveal two large wooden poles placed vertically, attached by a bar along the top, with yet another bar placed horizontally, just a foot from the bottom.

It was hard to see any details from his position, but he was pretty sure there were also leather restrains attached to either end of the bottom bar, and John felt sick to his stomach, already guessing what this _challenge_ was likely to be.

He didn't want to keep looking, but somehow he just couldn't tear his eyes away. Suddenly frightened of what he'd agreed to take on, John wondered if he would be strong enough to survive the challenge, let alone save the kid.

Then almost as if she could read his mind, Teyla closed the flap and turned to face him. "John. I know you might not feel like it, but you really must try to eat something to preserve your strength for the challenge ahead." She handed over some cold broth and bread, and while he knew she was right, he had no appetite for the simple meal, so put it to the side untouched.

"Please, John…you must try." Teyla lifted the bowl again, and for her sake, he took it and actually managed a couple of mouthfuls, but noticed she didn't protest again when he put it down, and drank his fill of the water instead.

"Teyla. I may not have another chance to speak to you properly once Falack comes to get me, so I need to make sure you understand what you have to do," he said quietly, his voice fading away.

"I know what I have to do," she raged. "I have to stand by and watch while you are punished, just because you are trying to do a good thing." Teyla's angry eyes locked with his, as she shuffled where she sat, clearly agitated.

Then he watched helpless as first one tear fell, then another, then the floodgates opened and they fell unhindered, streaming down her face. "This is my fault, John and it should be me undergoing this 'test'," she sobbed. "It was at my request you came here and got into this situation, and it was me, not you, who suggested we take him to Atlantis."

John let out a long sigh and tried to grab her hand, but she pulled it away, clearly not wanting to be comforted. "None of this is your fault, Teyla. You did the right thing…you usually do," he smiled "but when this is all over, I need you to get Elient away from here as soon as possible. My rescue can come later."

"But, John…"

He interrupted, not liking what he was about to say, even before the words came out of his mouth. "You're a strong woman, Teyla, but even you can't manage a wounded man and a child, over five miles of desert. I want you to get the boy away from these people, then come back for me."

John could see she was going to protest again, so he put his hand up. " No arguments. Now will you do that for me, or do I need to make it an order?" He used his best authoritative voice, but could tell by her resolute expression, his words didn't make an impact.

"Sometimes, Colonel Sheppard, orders are meant to be broken. However, if is clear that you are unable to make the journey with us, I will do what you ask…as a friend."

He was about to smile when it died on his lips, as at that moment the flap was pulled back to reveal Falack standing there, alongside two young men.

"Come with me, Colonel Sheppard. It is time to see how much courage you really have…"

ooooOoooo

It was already hot, the sun blinding, but when he raised a hand to shade his eyes, it was roughly pulled back as his arms were gripped on either side.

Once they reached the wooden posts, Falack stopped, then turning to the small crowd who had gathered, began to speak. "In accordance with the ways of our people and my authority as chief, you, John Sheppard will undertake the test of courage."

He felt dizzy and could already feel his mouth go dry, barely able to hear Falack's next words, because he was deafened, by the blood roaring through his ears. "You will be horsewhipped, twelve lashes across your chest, but during your ordeal you must not utter a sound, or succumb to the ordeal, otherwise you will have failed. Do you still wish to proceed?"

John didn't. He was already hurting and didn't want any more pain. Besides, he honestly didn't know how anyone could endure a brutal whipping without crying out. Yet to give Elient a better life, he had to try.

"Well, I would rather you just give me the boy and let us leave," John asked hopefully, but got his answer in Falack's stony expression. "However, as that's obliviously not an option…just get the hell on with it."

Held fast on either side, John could only watch as Falack secured his ankles together with a thick metal chain before attaching it to a rope, then throwing the other end over the top of the bar. As two of the men began pulling, he soon felt his body leave the ground, as the others supported his weight until he was hanging upside down, his head swaying mere inches from the sand. Then, while his aching muscles protested, each arm was roughly stretched out straight to the side, then firmly securing by the wrist to the bottom bar by the leather restraints.

In this position, the pounding in his head, which had been a constant companion for some time now, soon went from hellish to unbearable, as nausea washed through him and his vision blurred. As a result, he at first thought the man charging towards him on horseback was just an illusion, but the searing pain wasn't, as the sharp bite of the leather tore into his flesh.

His body buckled against the assault and he gasped, hoping no one had heard through the sound of the hooves as the animal thundered away. Aware he couldn't afford another slip, but already in agony and his ordeal just beginning, John didn't know how he was going to cope, but knew he must get though this…he couldn't let the boy down.

Like an earthquake, the ground shook as the palomino got closer, swirls of sand blinding, choking him as it made its second approach. This time, he heard the stiff band of leather as it whooshed, gave an almighty _**crack,**_ and hit hard, the pain horrific as it ripped a long, bloody trail across his neck.

On and on the brutal assault continued, relentless and merciless in its persecution, each lash burning, ripping him apart. He jerked back shuddering, his muscles screaming in protest, but there was nowhere to go. There was no escape from his torture and he was desperate to yell or scream - get some release for his agony, but he choked back his cries and concentrated on not passing out.

Grown men weren't supposed to cry, but tears blinded him, as each fierce strike made him quiver. He was struggling to breathe as each agonizing lash was more painful than the last. Yet he couldn't give in, wouldn't, despite its relentless brutality, even though his skin was flayed open again and again. His chest was on fire as fresh wounds ripped over old, tearing him apart, ravaging his mutilated body and sending convulsions up and down his spine, while he held the screams firmly inside.

Blood streamed from his ragged lacerations, dripping into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, making him gag as the sharp metallic taste trickled down his throat. John wanted it to be over, needed it to be soon, now In unbearable agony knowing that he couldn't withstand the sadistic assault much longer.

Barely able to focus, shrouded in pain, he couldn't remember how many more strikes were to come…was it over? Then he got his answer as he heard the crack of the whip once more, felt a heavy blow to the head then nothing…as the world turned black.

ooooOoooo

Well, I hope you enjoyed the whump, and please, as always, let me know what you think.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks again for all the reviews, I'm really delighted that you are enjoying the story so far.

Well poor John was left in quite a state, so what happens next?

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 4

"No!" Teyla screamed, horrified as the whip slammed into John's scalp, tearing a deep ragged line above his brow, leaving his ripped bloody body suddenly limp.

When she saw the amount of blood pouring from the wound, nausea washed through her. The rational side of her brain told her that the large, scarlet pool staining the dry sand below looked worse than it was, because excessive bleeding was common with head trauma. Though it was the resounding thud as the whip struck into his scalp that worried her most, especially as John, while not making a sound, had clearly been in agony, his body writhing with each vicious blow as the whip tore deep jagged lines across his chest. His body had bucked, reflectively jerking away with every strike…but now, he was motionless.

She strained against the strong arms holding her tight, desperate to reach him, but was held fast by the two men who waited grimly for Falack's inspection of the hapless victim hanging from the beam. The fierce sun was glaring, blinding her, so she couldn't tell if his eyes were open, but guessed John must be unconscious, as he hadn't moved since the last brutal assault. Teyla was worried sick, as she knew that while the deep, lacerations torn into his chest looked horrendous, his mutilated body would eventually heal, but the head wound was another, more serious matter. An injury like that often fatal, especially dangerous because John was still recovering from a concussion sustained only mere days before.

Teyla watched angrily, as the odious little man peered at John, prodding him like he was just a piece of meat hanging from a butcher's spike. She was furious, enraged about the precious time being wasted, time she could be releasing him from that cruel position and tending to his wounds, yet despite her frustration, she knew she must be patient, hold her tongue and stay strong for John's sake, until they were safely away from the settlement. Teyla decided then and there that regardless of his stupid order, she would not leave John with these callous people any longer than she had to. She was determined to get both him and the boy away from this hellish place as soon as possible, and take them home to Atlantis. But, when Falack finally opened his mouth to speak, all of her good intentions to keep silent disappeared.

"Despite the off worlder's brave attempt," the chief declared in a supercilious tone, "as Colonel Sheppard ultimately succumbed to his wounds and is now unconscious, according to the rules of the test he has failed, therefore the boy will remain with us." Falack made the announcement in an abstract fashion, scanning the eyes of the crowd as he spoke. Then once he was finished gave John another disinterested glance as he began to walk away, almost, in Teyla's view as if the torture Sheppard had been subjected to was of no consequence, and the man himself, worthless.

Furious, she broke free from her captors and ran to catch up with the old man, roughly pulling him round to face her, ignored by the dispersing crowd and her former guards, who were no longer interested in keeping her restrained. The main event of last two days was over, their gruesome entertainment had finished and John's bravery and persecution dismissed, by a few trite unjust words.

"Colonel Sheppard has not failed the test…it is you who have broken the rules," she snapped, her eyes filled with contempt for the uncaring man, enraged he would dare to break his promise after the cruel treatment meted out to her friend. "The lashes were to be on his chest, not his neck, and certainly _not_ his head," she continued as her eyes filled with angry tears, raging at the injustice, but unable to stop herself staring at the constant stream of blood dripping from the deep gash on John's scalp.

"Take the boy…"

Both Teyla and Falack swung round, surprised to see the man who had inflicted the punishment, dismount his animal, throw away the bloody whip with a look of disgust, then walk towards them. He appeared about John's age, tall, with long, dark hair plaited and left to hang over one shoulder. His face was rugged, with deep lines etched into his golden skin, damage from what Teyla presumed was too many hours spent working under the blazing heat of the sun.

"The woman is right, Falack. I missed…twice." he said, as he turned to address himself directly to the old man. "You may be the chief here, but I am the boy's uncle, and a damaged child is no use to me. Besides, the man has won the challenge and shown his courage, so now give him and our tribe some respect, and let them leave with the boy."

There was a tense silence for a minute as Teyla watched the standoff between the two, then she breathed a sigh of relief as Falack glared at the man, then gave a curt nod, as a signal for John to be released. Then, for a horrible moment, when it looked as though they were going to just let him drop, Teyla rushed forward, surprised to find Elient's uncle by her side, helping her ease John gently to the ground.

"Your friend did well." The man spoke in a deep, gruff voice so quietly that at first she barely heard him. "There are many young men here who could not have endured what he has done today, especially in silence, and your friend has proved to be an honourable and brave man, a worthy protector for the child."

She watched as he paused for a moment to look at John, almost as if he was considering something, before he turned to face her. "When he recovers, I need you to tell him what I did was to satisfy the rules of my tribe, and not done out of malice. If it had been up to me I would just have released the boy to him, but Falack, well, he may be old but he's still the chief, and determined to keep the traditional ways. In the end, I chose the quickest of the tests available to get his ordeal over with sooner, although it was probably the most painful because of that. Please…tell the colonel things will not always stay this way in Pallonia. There are those of us who are fighting to introduce change," he said, with a determination visible in his eyes. "In the meantime, borrow my horse, take him home, and get him the help he needs."

Teyla stole a look at the rugged face of the large man by her side, and wondered how someone who apparently had such a strong sense of honour could be so dismissive of his own flesh and blood. As a mother, it was hard for her to believe that anyone could treat a child the way Elient had been treated, let alone an uncle against his own kin. Yet she kept her own counsel, her thoughts silent, as between them they carefully lifted John, placed his jacket gently around his shoulders, then secured him onto the horse with some well placed rope. It concerned her that he still remained unresponsive even throughout their awkward handling, as his head slumped forward to rest on the thick blonde mane, while the child took his place behind him, wrapping his small, grubby arms around his waist to keep him steady.

Desperate to get away, Teyla nodded her thanks, then grabbing the reins began the long walk back to the 'gate. She knew John needed first aid urgently, but first she wanted to put as much distance between them and Falack's control as possible, just in case the malevolent chief decided to change his mind…

ooooOoooo

Already Carson had done a full inventory of every box, every piece of equipment and every single medication held in the infirmary, but nothing distracted him for long. Each minute that passed seemed like an eternity, as he paced up and down the small office, wearing out a faded line in the floor, as he checked his watch for the umpteenth time.

He should have been back. By now, the colonel should be lying comfortably in the corner bed, hooked up to his best drugs and healing. This was all his fault…

Never again would he let the colonel talk him into anything, let alone going against his better judgement, regardless if there was a whole village of weans involved. Lorne could have gone, even Ronon for that matter, but no, Sheppard had to be the _big_ man and risk getting himself killed.

He was raging, but more angry at himself than John. It had been his call, and he'd let his friend down. Carson cursed himself for being so bloody stupid. How long had he know the man…five years? Anyway, long enough to know how Sheppard made light of his injuries, hiding how much he was really hurting and keeping his pain close to his chest - private. Almost as if John believed that if he revealed his weakness, it somehow made him less of a man.

Why he did that, Carson didn't know. The colonel wasn't an idiot, although the way he sometimes recklessly risked his health was idiotic. Well, it wouldn't happen again, he would make sure of it. He just prayed the colonel came through this current adventure alive, so there would be a next time.

"Carson…are you okay?" Surprised, he glanced sideways and saw a concerned Rodney watching him intently from where he leaned in the doorway.

For a minute, Carson wasn't sure what to say, but decided against telling a lie to his old friend, knowing Rodney would probably suss him out anyway. "No, not really."

Rodney gave him a sympathetic but knowing look, then walked straight past him to pour both of them a cup of coffee. Next, Carson watched as he fished into his pocket, and producing two chocolate chip cookies, offered both to him. "I didn't see you at dinner last night," he said, sounding concerned, "and Jennifer told me you skipped breakfast this morning. You need to take care of yourself, Carson…you won't be fit to work your voodoo on John when he gets back if you get sick."

"Thanks…" Carson took a bite, savouring the soft, sweet taste as the treat melted in his mouth, not realising how hungry he was. He considered what Rodney had said and was sorry he'd worried him, but it wasn't that he'd deliberated not eaten. It was just that he was so anxious about John, he'd simply forgotten.

He saw Rodney watching him, and, aware of his love for cookies, especially chocolate chip, knew what a sacrifice his friend's gesture was. "Would you like a piece?" he asked, already guessing the answer, and at Rodney's nod, split the second cookie in half and handed it to his friend, detecting a hint of relief from the scientist that he didn't take up his initial offer and eat them both himself.

As the two men sat for a moment in companionable silence, Rodney muttered quietly, "It's not your fault, Carson. We both know what Sheppard's like." He paused, swallowing hard. "If anything, this is probably as much my fault as anyone's…"

"And how do you make that out, Rodney?" Carson interrupted, puzzled.

"I chose to stay behind. I thought it was a waste of my _precious_ time to hike in the blazing sun just to visit yet another backward settlement with no tech. Besides, I knew Teyla and Ronon were with him so I figured his back was covered." His voice cracked slightly. "Maybe if I'd gone I could have talked him out of it."

Carson chuckled slightly as he shook his head. "You don't really believe that?"

"No, I suppose not." He gave Carson a wry smile. "Nothing will stop 'Captain Courageous' from saving the day." Rodney swallowed, as his voice trailed off. "Even it means risking his own life."

"Not if I have anything to bloody well do with it," Carson grunted in response, as he pushed off the couch and made for the door, stopping to turn and look at his friend. "How do you fancy helping me get my kit down to the 'gate room?" he asked, suddenly deciding what he was going to do next. "I want to make sure I'm there and ready when the call comes in, but first I need to make a wee detour to the mess."

"Why?" Rodney asked, looking puzzled.

"Well, you were right about me needing to keep my strength up; besides, those cookies were rather nice…"

ooooOoooo

Much to Teyla's relief, no one from the settlement had followed them, so she ignored the sweat tricking down her back, and the searing heat bearing down on her head to keep going, knowing if she didn't get John home soon, he along with his victory would be short lived.

Progress was painfully slow, however, as the long walk took on marathon proportions. Her feet were scorching, as the roasting sand had burned holes through the soles of her boots as she guided the animal cautiously onwards, the poor beast carrying not one, but two burdens. John, who was still unresponsive, precariously swaying side to side, only still seated due to some strategically positioned rope, and the small arms of a determined child holding grimly around his waist.

A soft moan, alerted her just in time to see her friend lose his fight with gravity and begin to slide off the mount. Within seconds, she was by his side catching him, breaking what would have been a painful fall and easing his limp frame gently onto the ground. The child immediately understood what to do as he quickly jumped off and helped her bear the weight, then working together, they dragged the wounded man to a small outcrop of rocks nearby. In the scorching, oppressive heat, they only afforded a little shelter, but given there was nothing else visible in the harsh, barren landscape surrounding them, Teyla knew it was the best she could do. It was then she realised that John had been right; the 'gate was still over five miles away and he was in no condition to go any further.

With the boy's help, she bathed his wounds with as much of the water as she could spare, then dressed them using the remaining field dressings left in her vest. Beckett's bag, which could have afforded extra supplies had been regretfully left behind in the rush to leave.

Teyla was worried that not once during this time did John awake, the only sign he was still alive, the weak, thready pulse fluttering beneath her fingertips. She didn't want to leave him, especially not like this, but Teyla was aware she couldn't get a message to Atlantis from this far away, and knew that John's only chance of survival was if she returned to Atlantis and brought back help.

The painful decision made, Teyla signalled to the child and saw the same uncertainty and remorse mirrored in his eyes. Yet she had no choice, so with a last, lingering glance at her friend, and Elient's small fingers gripping tightly around her waist, Teyla spurred her steed into a gallop, hoping she wasn't going to be too late.

ooooOoooo

TBC

Well, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and please, as always, let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks again for the reviews and the alerts - they are much appreciated! And to those anonymous reviewers, I apologise I can't reply because the system doesn't allow it.

So Teyla had to leave John in the desert, what a horrible decision to have to make. Now on with the story...

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 5

Elient couldn't remember his farder, but the pretty lady holding him close sparked a memory of soft golden curls tickling his face, and brilliant blue eyes the colour of the sky above.

He didn't know anything about where he'd came from but knew his mamoud had loved him. Sometimes while he slept, images of strange sights and smells tumbled through his brain, and he longed to remember more, but the soft touch of her hands as she swept back his hair, and the clean fresh smell of her skin stayed with him always, memories of a happier time before he woke up one morning to find he was alone, and his misery began.

Uncale Miennal had never wanted him, and Elient didn't know why. He'd always tried to be good, and would have done whatever he was told, but his uncale seemed embarrassed by his presence, unwilling to accept his help or even bare to have him near. In the end, Elient had been left wondering what he'd done wrong to deserve his punishment, forced to wear the heavy metal collar that chaffed his skin and left chained up outside, only allowed in, when the searing heat was at its worst and at late at night when it got bitterly cold. Even then he was ignored, except to be beaten if he dared move about. So he hadn't, instead just sitting in his corner shivering, wrapping his arms around his body with his eyes squeezed tight, shutting out his misery and praying that his uncale would learn to love him.

Constantly hungry, his mouth would water while his uncale ate, the smells making his stomach ache as he waited for scraps, but there was never enough when there was any at all. Taunted by the other children and ignored by the grown-ups, he'd been left alone and lonely in his silent world, spending the long hot days sheltering from the heat, as he tried to hide his tears from the others. Until the nice man came.

He'd been kind, and given him the most wonderful hard brown tablet. It was sweet, and tasted like heaven as it melted onto his tongue…was the gift the reason his uncale had been so cruel to him? Elient liked the man, and really hoped his punishment wasn't his fault.

Flooded with tears, sobbing, he'd been forced to watch while his Uncale whipped the man time and time again - it was horrible. Each time as the horse turned to race down the narrow path, Elient had tried to look away as the whip struck and the man writhed in pain. Not wanting to believe this was happening because of him, but he couldn't think of any other reason why the stranger would be punished like this. The woman, the nice man's friend, had tried to comfort him by shielding his face, gathering him close to stop him from seeing anymore… but he would never forget the agony on the man's face, or all that blood.

When it was over, the man was just left to hang there and Falack, the chief, had come over and without even looking at him, released him from his chain. Elient didn't know why they'd let him go, and his uncale was too busy helping the lady to even say goodbye, but he didn't care. He'd Just been happy to get away, hoping anywhere would be better than here, and sensing these strangers wouldn't do him any harm.

They hadn't gone far before the man fell from his grasp, and Elient was upset because he knew he'd failed him. It was his job to keep him steady, and he'd tried, he really had, but his arms hadn't quite reached round his waist, and the man had just been too heavy for him to hold. He could tell the lady was worried, as she laid her friend on the ground and gently tended his wounds, talking to him, to both of them, even though the man was asleep and he couldn't hear. She'd looked round to speak to him, smiling. It was a pretty smile, but her eyes were sad as she lifted him onto the horse beside her as they went to leave.

He could tell she didn't want to go and neither did he, as they rode off leaving his new friend behind. Elient understood they were going for help, and just hoped they could get it quickly, because even as a child, he knew no one survived in the burning heat for long.

ooooOoooo

Ronon knew he shouldn't have left him. Teyla had once said there was a time to follow orders, and a time to go with his instincts, and back in that tent, the sick feeling tearing apart his gut had told him Sheppard's plan was all wrong. None of that situation made any sense - they didn't even want the kid, so why the dumb challenge?

He 'd been pretty sure it was just an excuse to beat the crap out of him; he'd seen Sheppard have that effect on people before. Ronon didn't know why, but sometimes John just had to flash that lopsided smile of his to piss someone off, although in this case he reckoned the chief felt guilty, embarrassed his people hadn't taken better care of the kid, and was angry at John for humiliating him. Or maybe he just hadn't liked the look of his hair; some people were funny like that. Still, the way he'd tied Sheppard's hands showed he meant business...so why the hell hadn't he followed his gut and stopped him?

The answer – respect. Sheppard was a stubborn SOB, and could irritate the hell out him, but he trusted the man with his life and knew his instincts were seldom wrong. Ronon had been a soldier for a long time, most of his life in fact, and without a doubt Sheppard was the best CO he'd ever had. He was smart, brave, willing to give his life for any of them, which was also his greatest failing, because Sheppard didn't realise how important he was to the people here, his team or Atlantis. His buddy was a good man, too good sometimes, like when he'd spared Kolya, twice, then kept that dumb promise to the Wraith. Ronon still didn't get why he's done that, but while he didn't always agree with some of Sheppard's decisions, he respected the hell out the guy, but more than that, John was the brother he never had.

More than twenty-four hours had passed since he'd left him behind, time during which he hadn't slept, barely eaten and had run till he was fit to drop. Ronon wasn't good at waiting and never had been, even as a kid. 'Impatient' his mother had called him, the memory of her laughter as he burnt his fingers on the freshly baked cookies straight out the oven making a smile pull at the edges of his mouth.

Later, though, during the long gruelling years as a runner, his 'impatience' had served him well, as he hadn't had the luxury of staying anywhere for long, hardly daring to rest in case his presence brought the Wraith upon the inhabitants of whatever planet he found himself on. Always on the move, he'd barely taken the time to eat or sleep, constantly fighting just to survive until the day he'd met Sheppard, when his life changed forever. So, as Sheppard asked him to wait, he would – but not for much longer.

Yet he wasn't alone in his vigil, the others were there too, all of them hanging around the 'gate, his friends and John's, waiting. His could see his worry mirrored in their eyes. There was McKay, who couldn't stop talking but never took his eyes off the 'gate for a second, Beckett, who keep checking his kit time and time again like a man possessed, and Lorne, who never left for more than a few minutes at a time, searching Ronon's face for news each time he re-entered the room. Even Woolsey couldn't sit still, the suit more anxious than he'd ever seen him, watching the scene from the balcony above, almost as if he could will the 'gate to activate, which Ronon wished he could.

Although he reckoned Woolsey's patience was also coming to an end, something made very clear by his strained expression in the conference room that morning. The guy wasn't happy, but had been reluctantly prepared to give his military CO the leeway his rank deserved. Still, his clipped tones sounded more pissed than usual, and when he'd told Lorne to have a team ready, no one had objected, which was fine by him.

Ronon knew, hell they all did, that Sheppard could be reckless with his own life, sometimes getting so carried away with what he was doing, he didn't know when to quit. Just like the time he'd insisted on leading the rescue mission on Michael's ship to rescue Teyla. Only a few hours before the guy had nearly died, and how he'd survived so long with that freaking hole in his gut, let alone convinced Keller to patch him up and let him go, he still didn't know. He'd even got pissy with him for taking the C4 off his hands when he was doubled up and barely able to stand. The guy was a piece of work alright, brave to be sure, but sometimes the stubborn SOB needed protecting from himself.

ooooOoooo

Relief flooded the control room as the gate sprang into life and Teyla's IDC was received and acknowledged. But only the Athosian emerged from the brilliant blue of the event horizon, clinging to a small, dark haired child who lay unmoving against her chest. Sheppard was missing…nowhere to be seen.

However, within moments it was clear something was wrong, and Rodney watched on horrified when she stumbled and fell to her knees. She looked exhausted, her pretty face flushed and covered in sweat, her eyes glazed as sand spilled from her hair and scattered onto the 'gate room floor.

"Teyla! Get a gurney over here." He heard Beckett bark out the order as the doctor rushed over to her side, quickly taking the unconscious child from her before she dropped him, and looking around anxiously for someone to hand the boy to.

"Give him to me, Doctor." Rodney was surprised to find the request came from Woolsey, who had suddenly appeared at his side and was holding out his arms to receive the boy. "I'll take him to the infirmary while you attend to Miss Emmagan, but I want a full report on what's happened to Colonel Sheppard as soon as possible." Woolsey was clearly angry at the dirty, emaciated state of the child, his eyes dark and his face grim, but as usual the diplomat said nothing, only nodding in their direction before he walked briskly away.

"Please, Carson, leave me be, I will be fine." Teyla protested in a exhausted tone, her voice dry and croaky. Though Carson didn't move, supporting the woman while she grabbed the proffered bottle of water and after taking a large gulp, she continued. "You must leave now and get to John quickly," she panted. "He was subjected to a brutal whipping and took a heavy blow to the head...he hasn't regained consciousness since." Her voice stuttered then, and Rodney saw her eyes fill with tears. "I didn't want to leave him, but he was unresponsive, and too heavy for me to move as well as the boy, so may the Ancestor's forgive me… but I had no choice."

While Beckett rubbed small circles on her back, he caught Rodney's eye and the scientist saw his concern. "Of course you didn't, love. We all know you would have got him back here if you could," he said, using the calm reassuring tone Rodney reckoned they must teach in medical school. "Just tell me the full extent of his injuries, and where he is, and we'll have him back home and tucked up in bed before you know it."

"No, I'm coming with you," Rodney heard her call out, then shared a worried look with Ronon as Teyla tried to get up and tear herself away from Beckett's ministrations, but barely got to her knees before quickly falling onto the floor.

"Do what the doc tells you, Teyla, and we'll take care of Sheppard, " Ronon said, in a tone that brooked no argument, though his words didn't seem to register, as she still appeared hesitant.

"Ronon's right, Teyla, " Rodney reasoned, trying to back up one team mate, while hoping to make another accept the help she needed. "Don't worry. We'll get him home, just tell us where to find him."

For a moment time seemed to stand still, until he saw her weary head nod slowly and her shoulders slump, as all the remaining fight left her body. Teyla looked heartbroken, but deep within her eyes Rodney could tell she realised he was right.

ooooOoooo

"This is the spot, isn't it?" Beckett could hear the note of panic in Rodney's voice as the red-faced scientist knelt beside the small outcrop of rocks where Teyla had told them she'd left the colonel, but apart from a large pool of dried blood, there was no other trace the man had ever been there.

Beckett tried to shield his eyes from the glare, knowing the rescue party couldn't stay exposed to the sweltering afternoon sun for long, worried that everyone was already struggling with the heat. Even Lorne, who was usually a closed book, appeared concerned, as he wiped the sweat streaming from his face. "I don't think we're going to find any more answers here, Major." Carson reasoned with Sheppard's XO, as they visually scanned the barren landscape. "Why don't we retire to the jumper and do another sweep of the area? If the colonel did regain consciousness, it's unlikely he could have gone far."

"Already been done, Doc," Lorne replied, his usual upbeat tone sounding dejected, "but there was no signal from his subcutaneous transmitter. I suppose it could be the heat that's interfering with it, but not likely. Or maybe it got damaged somehow. Anyway, I'm going to keep searching…all night if I have to. In the meantime, we need to get everyone back to the jumper, because none of us will last long in this heat."

Carson nodded, relieved the major shared his opinion, but loath to leave all the same. As he witnessed the argument going on between Ronon and Lorne, he couldn't blame the big Satedan for not wanting to go, neither did he, but the professional in him knew nothing would be gained by yet another member of the team languishing in the infirmary from heat stroke.

The confusion on Rodney's flushed face said it all though. None of this made any sense, not one single thing. From what Teyla had told him, the blood loss John sustained would have been enough to leave him severely weakened. However, combined with the worrying head injury, by rights the colonel should still have been here, most likely still out for the count. So where the bloody hell was he, and more to the point - who had taken him?

ooooOoooo

TBC

Well, was that a surprise? So where is he, and who has him? We'll get part of the answer in the next instalment. Hope you enjoyed this chapter though, and please review, as I really do love to know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

Many thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review- it really means a lot, and I know I keep saying this, but your feedback really does give me encouragement to keep writing.

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 6

It had been four days since the stranger was brought to the castle, four days in which she'd cared for him, cleaned his wounds, spent long hours late into the night mopping his brow while in the grip of fever, but still he lay unconscious.

For a time, she'd feared he would not survive, but eventually the angry wounds that criss-crossed his chest started to heal, and the fever that threatened his life, had only just broken the previous day. Yet still he stayed silent, unmoving, almost like one of the Master's tall marble statues lining the hall…and in her eyes just as beautiful.

Streya was nearly fifteen, a woman now, and knew it would soon be time for her joining. It was no secret that her Master favoured Durand, Chamberlain Hamlane's assistant, as a suitable match, and while the tall blonde man was quite good looking she supposed, she had always favoured dark hair. Besides, he was only a mere boy compared to the man lying before her.

Even with his burnt, swollen face, John was handsome. He had such strong defined features, yet they were kind. He looked so different from the arrogant boys who teased her with their lewd remarks, stealing the supplies from her basket, and bumping into her in the hall. Marella, her best friend, had smiled when she'd complained about it, telling her it was just their way to grab her attention, for a pretty girl ready to settle down was always in demand.

Before now, Streya had never really thought about her looks, but her father once told her she resembled her mother. She too had been slim with light brown hair, though mother's was straight, where as hers curled in waves around her shoulders. Her father also said they shared the same sunny disposition and eyes - bright blue, the colour of violets. Much to her regret, Streya had never known the woman who gave her life, as the Ancestors had taken her soon after she entered the world.

Now, with her father passed away this last summer, she was on her own. Streya would have liked some memento of her beloved parents, a picture to look upon when she woke in the morning and last thing at night before she closed her eyes. Slaves, though, were not worthy of such expense, so she along with the others was identified by number and position alone…housemaid. Therefore, sadly, she would never see her father's face again, and would never find out if what he'd said about mother was true, or just the treasured recollection of a man in love.

As she gently bathed the healing wounds and wiped the last traces of sweat from his handsome face, Streya longed for John to awake. She smiled as she remembered the stir he'd caused when he'd arrived, Madam Tresin becoming quite cross at the fuss they'd made, with all of the housemaids competing for the chance to tend him. In the end, her irate mistress finally deciding to end the matter by drawing lots, with the prize unexpectedly won by her.

It was tiring work coping with both her own duties and caring for the sick man. Yet despite her exhaustion, she wouldn't relinquish the role to anyone. If only he would wake up and open his eyes. Much to her amusement, some of the women had a wager as to what colour they would be. Most thought they would be brown. Marella, had guessed blue, but she was hoping for green…olive green with specks of amber, just like the colour of the forest, and the eyes once belonging to her beloved father.

She wondered if she dare ask the Master to allow her to become joined to this man, since she had saved the life of his newest acquisition. There was no doubt that John would become a worthy addition once he was fully recovered, except according to rumour he was found, not purchased in the market - so was he a slave? The strange tagged metal chain found around his neck would indicate so, although apart from his name and job description - shepherd - it gave no real clues to who owned him. Though, from what Durand had told her, the master had already decided that with his owner nowhere to be found, John would join his household.

A twinge of regret came with the thought, as despite being born into slavery herself, she somehow found it hard to believe John had. Streya knew the feeling didn't make any sense, but there was just something about him. The strong determined line of his jaw hinted he wasn't used to being subservient to any man, and she feared for him, aware the burden of slavery was hard enough for those used to it, but a free man, someone used to choosing their own path, would not easily accept the yoke of servitude.

It wasn't that the Lord Protector was particularly cruel, but he was a proud man that brooked no disobedience, so if John crossed him…Well, she just hoped she was wrong. Yet if he was to stay, Streya now knew that no callow youth would do for her anymore. She wanted a man…him.

ooooOoooo

Someone was humming. It was a pretty voice, young and vaguely familiar. He'd heard it once or twice before, but had thought it was a dream and couldn't place it. Neither could he remember why he hurt so much, his chest heavy, like a weight was pressed against it…a hot, fiery weight rippling across his body, tight, stinging, yet nothing compared to the shaft of pain spiking through his skull.

"Nnnnghnn…" he groaned, then felt a cool damp cloth pressed to his forehead. It felt good, and he savoured the slight relief it brought, but the pain was agonising and he wanted drugs…lots of them, something to ease his misery to a more tolerable level.

"It's time to wake up now and let me see those eyes of yours," the owner of the voice said. It was young, female, and he really wanted to obliged, but dreaded how much worse that would made him feel.

"Come now, John," the voice said, then asked with a hint of uncertainty, "That is your name, isn't it?"

And there it was…he didn't know. Suddenly, he was struggling to breathe, his heart pounding, as he realised he couldn't remember anything, zilch, nadda, nothing …not even his name.

Panicked, he realised he couldn't stay here – wherever here was - because he needed answers, and this girl obviously didn't have them. "Aghh…"

"Please, John," she pleaded, her voice sounding desperate. "Try to calm down, you are badly hurt and must lie still." His eyes flew open to see a young girl no more than sixteen bending over him, her sweet face strained with worry. Then, he watched, puzzled, as a slow smile grew on her face, almost as if she'd found the answer to a long lost secret. "There you are," she said, now beaming widely. "It's finally good to meet you, John. My name is Streya, and it is I who has been caring for you since you arrived."

"How…long?" John flinched as he raked a shaking hand through his hair, his aching muscles protesting even that small movement.

In response, Streya gently took his arm and laid it down by his side, then continued to bathe his face with the cool cloth as she spoke. "The Master found you lying in the desert over four days ago. You were dying, John, as close to death as I've seen anyone. It's a miracle you survived."

"Thanks…for helping me," John replied, but he felt like crap and was too exhausted, too miserable and way too confused to make any small talk. It wasn't that he was ungrateful, and the girl looked harmless enough, but he didn't know her. Nor did he recognise the small, cramped room with the sandstone walls, or even remember how he got hurt.…nothing, everything was a blank until he'd woken up just a moment ago.

"Now I know you must be hungry," Streya announced as she rose from the chair. "So I will get you something to eat, then afterwards something to help with the pain in order that you can rest."

Even the mention of pain relief seemed to make him feel a little better. John knew he was a strong man, or at least thought he was, but everything hurt, and the spikes piercing through his aching head were making it harder to cope with the fact his life was now was a blank slate. A dark void, where he had no clue of where he came from, what kind of kind of life he led…or even what kind of person he was.

Still, Streya seemed like a nice kid, so trying not to disappoint, he forced down a few sips of the tasteless broth before watching her take a green glass bottle and raise it to his lips. "Just a little, John. It won't take away all your pain, but should make it feel a little more bearable."

Whatever it was tasted vile, and while it did provide some relief the kid had been right, as it barely made a dent in his misery. After a while, the pain cranked back up again and John found himself longing for an unknown place, with comfortable beds and drugs that took him into oblivion. Where that was he hadn't a clue, nor did he know what the whole drugs scenario meant – was he was some kind of addict? He hoped not, but why else would he have a memory like that, unless he was used to getting high? Of course, it could also be because he got hurt…a lot. Yet, if that was the case, then why? Did he have a hazardous job - if so what was it? Or if he'd been injured in the past, were his wounds a result of being punished?

More questions just brought more possible answers he didn't like, and John desperately hoped Streya knew something. "Where is this place, Streya?"

The wide smile was back, and John had to admit she was a cute kid. "This is Etraska, where the Master is Lord Protector Garmend," she replied while tucking the blankets firmly round his chin.

John felt his mouth go dry, suddenly afraid of what the answer to the next question would be. "And who am I, Streya?" he asked hesitantly, trying to suppress the note of panic in his voice. "Somehow I've lost my memory, and until you told me, I didn't even know my name."

"Oh, John. I am so sorry – can't you remember anything?" Streya put down the cloth she had been holding, and looked up, visibly upset.

"Nothing…"

"Well, the young Master found you just over four days ago." As Steya began to speak, John noticed her hands twisted nervously on her lap, and her beautiful eyes filled with remorse. "You had been brutally whipped, John, and left to die in the desert," she said, sounding sad. "And there was a chain around your neck, marking you as a slave, so…" John watched as Streya seemed to take a calming breath before she continued, "he decided that as you must have escaped your master, to bring you back here to serve him…"

John was stunned, and for a moment couldn't speak. A slave…he couldn't be. The room started to sway and he felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't take in what Streya had just told him and didn't want to believe it, which he knew was weird, given that he couldn't remember anything of his former life. All the same he refused to accept he was ever a slave…it couldn't be true.

He was confused, frightened and knew zip about his past, but there was something deep within him, something he couldn't quantify or even explain, that told him he wasn't meant to live a meaningless life of servitude… it just wasn't _him._ He couldn't recall anything, but his gut told him he wasn't the type of guy to accept oppression. It was all wrong, and not who he was - yet what type of man was he?

If he was born into this kind of life, then what made him think he could rebel against the burden of slavery and escape? Besides, even if he managed it, where the hell would he go? He knew nothing, no one, and the very thought he was trapped in a place he didn't know, forced to serve under another man's will, made him panic…he couldn't breathe. His aching chest grew tighter as bile threatened to choke him. Nauseous, his weak muscles trembled then shook uncontrollably, as the enormity of Streya's revelation finally set in.

"John…" Streya called out, her voice filled with alarm. "You must try to calm down," she pleaded, then took his hand in hers, rubbing it gently. "Master Garmend isn't that bad. Provided you do your work well and on time he is fair. Just do as you're told and life needn't be unpleasant."

Unpleasant…just thinking about it was unbearable. His head, already aching, now pounding, the pain intolerable as he squeezed his eyes shut and cupped a trembling hand over his face.

"I'm not supposed to give you too much because it's expensive, but I'll just tell Madam Tresin I spilt some on the floor…"

Streya's anxious voice brought him to his senses, as he withdrew his hand just in time to see her cast a nervous glance at the door before lifting the green bottle once again.

"No, Streya. I will not allow you to get into trouble for me." He grabbed her hand just as she was about to place the bottle to his lips. "It was just a shock that's all." John forced a smile on his face, but knew it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure after some rest and time to think about things I'll be fine," he said, but it was a lie.

John knew he could never accept living like this, but was relieved that the smile did its job as the kid started to relax and seemed happier as she went to leave.

"Streya. You called me John. What was my second name?" he asked hopefully, desperate for just one more clue.

"Slaves only have one name, John, as we have no need to be identified any other way," she replied, in a matter of fact tone, without giving any appearance of regret. "Now close your eyes and try not to fret anymore. I'm sure the next time you awake things will not seem so bad."

Streya had answered him without even realising the significance of what she'd just said. John knew though. That one short statement told him their 'master' considered them as mere property, so worthless in fact, he didn't even see the point in gracing them with a second name.

Demoralised and in pain, John could feel sleep pulling him under, and hoped that when he awoke this whole freaking nightmare would be over, and he'd be back home tucked up in his own bed. But in case it wasn't, and he still didn't know where home was, he wanted to learn one last thing before he closed his eyes. "On my chains, Streya. You said it mentioned my name and occupation. What am I?"

Streya paused before replying, her lips twitching, almost as if she found the answer unlikely. "It said you were a shepherd, but Madam Tresin said it had a funny spelling."

"Right…" he replied, but it wasn't. None of this was and John knew then and there, that regardless of the personal cost he couldn't stay here. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with tending sheep, or any other livestock for that matter, but it just wasn't him. He knew it, and so did the girl.

John didn't know what his job was before, but knew it had to have to had some real purpose. Maybe he'd been a doctor saving lives, or even a teacher. Perhaps he was a solider dedicated to protecting the lives of others. Surrounded by the mystery of his past and fear about the future, John was only sure of one thing. He couldn't, wouldn't, spend the remainder of his days as a slave…he would rather die first.

ooooOoooo

In the days that followed, Streya proved to be not just a caring nurse, but also a welcome distraction, her pretty face lighting up the room as she told him about the daily gossip from the slave quarters. She regaled him with tales of the new kitchen maid putting so much yeast in the bread, it exploded with such a bang they thought the castle was under attack, then the more serious matter when the apparently formidable Madam Tresin caught her friend, Marella, kissing one of the groomsmen in the cellar.

John wondered why that was such a big deal – a kiss being just a kiss after all. Then Streya grew serious and gave him an intense look as she told him that when a woman comes of age she is joined to one of the other slaves. A desirable state, according them greater freedom with larger quarters, although the choice of partner was not theirs to make, it was the master's. Therefore for a slave to form an unauthorised attachment was forbidden. When John asked what happened to the luckless pair, her eyes clouded over and she went silent. For the rest of that morning she remained visibly upset, not willing to discuss it any further despite all his attempts to cheer her up.

She was a good kid, and John was pretty sure he owed her his life, but he felt uneasy at the way she looked at him, especially when she thought he didn't notice. He wasn't a vain man, but it was as clear as day the pretty housemaid liked him, maybe a little too much.

John realised her attentions, while flattering could be a problem if they went too far, and he didn't want to hurt her for the world. He only hoped she would come to her senses in time, because for one, he was far too old for the young girl, and besides, he had no intention of staying there.

Though escape was going to prove problematic as it wasn't just the solid, locked door that was keeping him in. That barrier only the first hurdle, John realised, as once he summoned enough strength to stumble painfully over to the small oval window, his heart sunk like a stone. He was being held in a large fortress, and when he looked beyond soon realised that between him and freedom lay a one hundred foot drop to the ground, and an unforgiving landscape of rolling green fields, which reached out as far as the eye could see…

ooooOoooo

TBC

So John is a slave, and not just that, he's also lost his memory. One question answered, but several more to come.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please, let me know what you think of the story so far.


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks again for the reviews, and to all those still following the story.

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 7

Hamlane knew that being a good judge of character wasn't a prerequisite to becoming an effective slave master, although that particular skill had served him well over the years.

Usually, after only a short meeting with one of the master's new acquisitions, he was soon able to tell who would be likely to follow orders without question, but also quickly identify those who might need a little _encouragement_ in order to meet the exacting requirements of the Lord Protector's household. He also prided himself on his ability to match the right person with the right job, so upon meeting the new slave, John, Hamlane soon realised that if the tall, proud man in front of him had ever been a shepherd…then he would be the next master.

The man's air of authority as he came into the office and dared to look him straight in the eye was verging on the belligerent, especially considering he was new here. It was also obvious by the stiff manner in which the slave held himself that he was still in some pain, although concealed it well, barely flinching when, with reluctance almost bordering on insolence, he finally removed his tunic after the second request.

Hamlane didn't need a closer examination to tell him the ragged scars had been caused by a whip. The deep criss crossed lacerations unmistakable, however, he did wonder what this slave had done to deserve such an unusually painful punishment. All of the tears were slashed solely into the more tender chest area rather than his back, some of the wounds still appearing raw, though fortunately from his perspective, the majority had healed.

Streya, the young house maid who had cared for the slave, informed him that the man alleged he'd lost his memory, even now claiming no knowledge of his previous life, before he awoke in the castle. A likely story in his view, but whether or not it was true, or simply a ruse to conceal a troublesome past, Hamlane was determined to find out.

Regardless of his lost memory, there was something about this man that puzzled Hamlane. Over his many years of service, he'd had cause to bring many belligerent slaves into line, some, because they were lazy, others, because they were too stupid to realise, at least to start with, that failure to comply with the Master's rules would not be tolerated. In both cases, a short, uncomfortable stay in the dungeon, or the bite of the whip, was usually enough to rectify the problem. However, he sensed while this man appeared to be intelligent, he also already exhibited a worrying degree of attitude toward his authority, which did not bode well for his future wellbeing.

Despite the nature of his injuries, this man, John, possessed a proud bearing, and his confident, almost arrogant demeanour was unlike any slave he'd ever met. He was also aware that this new acquisition had been found dying in the desert, and purely on the basis of finding a strange metal necklace around his neck was pronounced a slave…but was he? Hamlane harboured doubts, but the Master's instructions were paramount, and at the end of the day it was none of his concern; he had a job to do.

"Good morning, John. My name is Hamlane and I am the Chamberlain here, responsible for all the slaves owned by our Master, The Lord Protector of Estraska," he explained, but the expression from the new slave didn't change - he still looked unimpressed. "I can see that your wounds are healing well, but I understand you still have no memory of when or why you received them?" Hamlane asked, keeping his tone disinterested, as he was irritated at the continued defiant tilt of the stranger's jaw, and the piercing glare he was giving him.

"No…"

"That's a pity, because now you have left me with a dilemma." Hamlane searched the man's face for answers before continuing, trying to decide whether or not he was lying. "Your wounds were caused by a whip, so from that alone, I can only deduce they were inflicted as a punishment - I can't think of any other reason, can you?" he reasoned, but the man's expression remained the same – impassive. Hamlane could only conclude he really had lost his memory. That, or John really was a very good liar.

"I've already told you I don't know," John replied, the quiet tone of his voice sounding no less annoyed for the lack of volume. "But I'll tell you this, regardless of how I was found, or what was around my neck, I cannot and will not believe I was ever a slave."

Hamlane, stood back on his heels for a moment and considered the angry, determined slave glaring at him, trying not to let his own irritation show. "Well, how a man with no memory can be so sure, I don't know," he pointed out. "What I do know is, regardless of what the truth may be, as the Master considers you to be his property, it is my job to make sure you not only understand your role in this household, but also obey the rules." Hamlane reached forward and gripped John's chin firmly in his hand, then glared into his eyes. "Is that understood?"

"Perfectly…" he heard the slave reply. He let go of his face, then the man unexpectedly interrupted. "Perfectly clear that you're not the one in charge here, so I'd like to talk to the Lord Protector if that's okay. Can you organise that for me, chief?" John asked in an impudent tone, while giving him a wry smile, and Hamlane sadly realised that his warning had made no impression, because the defiance was still there…

"Durand," Hamlane turned to his tall, well-built assistant and clicked his fingers. "The bands, please."

Hamlane decided not to grace his insolence with an answer, and saw a flash of anger, almost indignation, as the youth snapped the thick smooth bronze bands around John's wrists and ankles then passed him the last one destined for his neck.

A tall man, Hamlane was pleased that although he didn't tower over the slave standing before him, he nonetheless had the advantage of slightly looking down upon him as he secured the last metal band around his neck. "With these chains, you are hereby placed into the service of our esteemed master, Garmen, the Lord Protector of Estraska. Bend your knee, slave, and pledge your allegiance to his authority. "

"No," John answered, his face flushed with anger. "I've already told you I'm a free man, so there's no freaking way I'm bending my knee to anyone, let alone a two-bit dictator." Hamlane's eyes flew open, surprised at the vehemence of the slave's response. But as he went to speak, the hostile man continued, although this time his tone was less aggressive, almost as if he was trying to appear more reasonable.

"Look…Hamlane, or Mr Chamberlain, is it?" John continued, his face still looking strained, although the rage of before was now only visible in the heightened flush still lingering across his face. "No offence, but I'm sure this has just been a big misunderstanding, so if you don't have the authority to sort this out just let me speak to the boss. Or even take me back to where I was found, I'm sure that someone there could figure this out."

"Enough!" Furious, Hamlane threw back his arm and slapped the back of his hand hard across his face, watching as the man staggered but didn't fall under the blow, then wiped the trickle of blood running from his mouth.

Though the slave said nothing, his silence spoke volumes, the undisguised loathing seething as if from every pore. It told him this man was going to be a problem, one which in Hamlane's experience would be better dealt with now, before he really got out of hand.

"You would do well to calm down, John, and don't make your situation any more difficult than it has to be," he warned. "In the meantime, until you accept your servitude and give your allegiance to the Master, I have no choice but to keep you locked up. Once you've had some time to consider your circumstances and accept your place, then, and only then, will you be released and assigned suitable duties."

Hamlane was annoyed at himself for losing his temper, even though he'd been provoked. Yet despite John's disrespect, he still disliked having to discipline a slave so soon after arrival. Unfortunately, the new slave's superior attitude could not be tolerated, as if he shared his outrageous views with the others, this well spoken man's influence could easily spread discontent. Therefore, it was imperative John was taught a lesson now…but Hamlane was less than confident a couple of days in the harsh, cold environment of the dungeon would be sufficient to teach the arrogant slave his place.

"I would encourage you to spend your time incarcerated wisely, by learning how to moderate your behaviour." Hamlane pressed the issue, then decided to change tack in an attempt to bring the man round by showing some empathy. "Look, John. I understand with no memory of your previous life, it must be difficult to accept you are not a free man, but once assigned duties, you will be afforded a warm place to sleep, two square meals a day and who knows, if you work hard and prove your loyalty, the master may even find you a suitable female with whom to be joined."

"Think I'll pass on that, thanks," John smirked, but the resentment never left his voice as he shook his head slowly. "I might not remember anything about my past," he said. "But somehow, I don't think I'm the settling down type of guy."

"So, you're a solitary man are you, John?" Hamlane's voice was slightly surprised, but then realised that was hypocritical of him, as while occasionally enjoying the company of the opposite sex, he also felt the same way. "Of course, while I share the sentiment, you should understand that it is not your wishes that count, it is the Master's, so you would do well to remember that." As he spoke, Hamlane signalled to Durand plus another guard standing by the door, knowing that to perform his next act, the new slave would need to be restrained.

For some reason Hamlane couldn't explain, he felt a pang of regret for what he was about to do, as he took a long, smooth controller in his hand and pressed down the oval button in one swift, firm stroke.

"What the hell?" he heard John yelp and protest loudly, as the sharp, tiny needles hidden within the bands pierced into his skin, flooding the powerful liquid restraint into his veins. Hamlane only had to wait a moment, until the drugged man fell helpless to his knees, before he turned to the brazier burning brightly in the corner of the room.

It was clear from the glazed look in his eyes that John could barely focus, but even sedated, Hamlane saw him try to struggle against the strong arms forcing him down. "You know what to do, Durand – place him face down on the floor and secure his right arm straight out to one side. Make sure he can't move. "

As Hamlane eased the thick, suede glove over his hand, he turned to the white hot, oval brand nestling within the brazier's fiery depths and wondered why the young Master had asked for this antiquated seal of ownership to be resurrected. In his view it was both cruel and unnecessary, plus made no sense, especially since the sedation bands were introduced some time ago and already bore the seal of ownership.

However, although unhappy with what he was about to do, Hamlane was all too aware he was as much a slave as the man before him, therefore just as liable to punishment if he failed to do the Master's wishes. So flinching from the heat, he ignored the loud, piercing scream as he thrust the searing hot brand against the healthy pink skin till it did its job, and tried not to gag at the rancid smell of burning flesh as it assaulted not just his nose, but also his conscience.

ooooOoooo

The frame where the vicious assault took place had been dismantled, gone without a trace, and even the so-called circle of light, the ring of pebbles where John was confined for nearly a day, had completely vanished. If not for the horrific memories, it almost seemed to Teyla as if the events of ten days ago had never happened, and were just a cruel figment of her imagination.

Teyla was aware that neither Mr Woolsey nor Carson, wanted her to be part of the delegation investigating John's disappearance - but she needed to come. She knew it was necessary to revisit the place where it had all happened, partly, if she was honest, to confront the waking nightmares that haunted her ever since her return, but also because she was desperate to remind herself why she'd started this chain of events in the first place.

Despite what everyone told her, Teyla was burdened with guilt, acutely aware that every horrific thing that happened to John, including his subsequent disappearance, was all down to her. She was the one who had pleaded with him to save the child while he was still in the infirmary. So John had done as she'd asked, though unfit to suffer the agonies necessary to secure the boy's freedom. Now he was missing, and the blame was entirely hers.

Teyla blinked, blinded by the glare of the midday sun, but when she cast her eyes down saw it glint off the empty collar where only a short time ago Elient had once been chained like an animal. As a mother herself, she found it impossible to understand how anyone could abuse a child the way they had, yet now it was good to see that even in a short space of time, treated with love and care, Elient was a different child.

With the grime washed off, his hair was more light brown than black, and with a few wholesome meals in his small belly he was becoming a real heartbreaker, although still nervous and slow to trust those who were trying to help him. Yet, as Carson rightly said, a major city was not built in a day, a place called 'Rome', she believed he called it. Though sometimes the way the boy glanced over at the door, she was almost positive he was waiting for John to enter the room.

Teyla knew John would be happy to see the difference in the boy, and she was still convinced it had been right to bring Elient's plight to his attention. Despite everything, knowing John the way she did, she believed that even if he'd know the way things were going to turn out, he would still have volunteered to take the test.

Nonetheless, even gaining some amount of closure with that sudden revelation, she still couldn't be at peace. Her conscience pricked, preying on her every waking moment for abandoning her friend when he was so badly hurt. Teyla only hoped and prayed this distasteful visit would glean some information that would help them with their search, since it was clear now that John wasn't on the planet, and according to Rodney, could be held at any of the sixty-nine locations retrieved from the DHD.

A rustle of canvas made her swing round as a grim-faced Lorne stormed out the tent. "Insufferable, jumped up…" Lorne muttered under his breath.

"I believe that was Colonel Sheppard's opinion of Chief Falack too, Major," Teyla interrupted with a wry smile. "Did you manage to find out anything about who could have taken him?" she asked, her voice laced with desperation.

Lorne shook his head. "No…But I have a feeling he knows something, he just doesn't want to share it with us," he replied, clearly frustrated, with a cynical expression on his face.

Ronon's face contorted with anger. "Just give me a few minutes with him…"

"No!" Teyla and Lorne called out in unison.

"That is not the way, Ronon," she said, turning to face him and placing her hand on his arm. "I want John to be found as much as anyone, more perhaps. Yet, we all know he would not condone that type of action. Besides, knowing Falack, it could be true that he actually doesn't know anything, and is just playing with us. Still, there is someone else I could ask," Teyla mumbled, as she started to look around and scan the compound, "but I don't see him here today."

"Yeah…suppose...but it would have made me feel better," Ronon replied, then thumped his fist against his blaster and glared at the chief's tent one more time, before storming away.

Lorne wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, then motioned toward Ronon's back. "C'mon, Teyla. Let's get the hell out of this place and head home…maybe Doctor McKay will have some better news for us."

Teyla saw her despair mirrored on his face, but no words were spoken as they fell into step and made their way towards the jumper. She considered the man by her side and knew it was unusual for the major to display his feelings, as he, just like John, normally wore a bland mask concealing how he really felt.

In some ways, she supposed being able to hide your feelings was quite a good skill to have, and wondered if it was something they taught in the military, along with weapons training and hand-to-hand combat. One skill though, she would never be able to acquire, as Teyla realised just like Ronon, she too on occasion was inclined to be headstrong.

Aware though, that John had an unhappy knack of getting under people's skin, because he was often confrontational, and she knew not everyone appreciated the Sheppard brand of humour. Teyla thought of her friend and worried about him, wondering where he could be, praying someone was taking good care of him, and that just for once, he managed to keep out of trouble long enough, until they could find him and bring him home…

ooooOoooo

TBC

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please review.


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks again for the reviews, and again I want to apologise to the anonymous reviewers, as the system doesn't allow me to answer you.

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 8

When he awoke that morning to see the white cotton tunic and brown pants folded neatly at the end of his bed, John knew the brief respite he'd been accorded since arriving was over. While a few of the deeper lacerations were still slow to heal, he felt if not good, then at least much better. Even the lingering headaches were more bearable than before, until he tried to remember anything, then a sharp, blinding spike drove through his skull like a pick axe, bringing him to his knees.

Soon afterwards though the day went downhill real fast, when the door swung open to reveal not Streya, but instead two goons who roughly grabbed him by the arms, then forcibly removed him from the small, spartan room where he'd been staying since he arrived. Streya had told him that morning he would shortly be taken to meet some guy called the Chamberlain, and warned him to mind his Ps & Qs, but he hadn't the heart to tell her he was looking for answers, and didn't care who's feathers he ruffled to get them.

Still, although he was pissed getting hauled along like a sack of potatoes, at least it gave him an opportunity to see beyond the locked room. Unfortunately though, he found it much as he expected since that first depressing look out the window - impenetrable. The building was a mass of long, winding corridors, all identical, with thick, sandstone walls and few windows, all too narrow for a grown man to climb through, and even if he did, there was the steep drop to consider.

John suppressed a sigh, as the deeper he went into the dimly lit castle the more disheartened he became. Escape, he gradually realised would be problematic, if not downright impossible, and even if he did manage to get outside the castle walls, there was still the unknown dangers lurking in the moat to consider, not forgetting the flat, unforgiving landscape where a prisoner on the run would be spotted within minutes.

Already depressed, he was pretty on edge even before he met the _big_ _cheese_. The tall, well-built guy sitting behind the large wooden desk clearly no push over, and although he wasn't the 'Master' John was hoping to meet, he soon pronounced himself as being the next tier of command, the person responsible for all slaves. His name was Hamlane, and while they seemed a similar age from what John could tell, that's where the resemblance ended.

Despite being under par, John reckoned he still looked reasonably fit, but even under the fine, green linen tunic he could see the big guy's muscles had muscles, and Hamlane's wild red hair, tied back in a ponytail, should have given him a warning about his temper. He also appeared to be a one-man judge and jury, John soon accused of being a troublemaker, branded like freaking cattle, then thrown into a cold, damp cell with no bed, or even a blanket to keep out the chill seeping into his bones. All he had was a dirty bucket in the corner for relief, and the only water, trickled down the walls forming puddles on the flagstones beneath.

The stench of his own burning flesh had made him gag, and shrouded by pain, he could barely remember being hauled from the office then half- dragged, half-carried though seemingly endless corridors until he was thrown into the cell. Once there, too stunned to resist as the guards made short work of stripping him to his boxers, before attaching short metal chains to the bands around his wrists and ankles.

For a long time afterwards he'd just laid there, trembling as the searing heat spiked through his arm, rendering it useless, while the pain radiated in agonising waves though his body. Later, in misery, he shivered as he hugged himself trying to gain some relief against the fierce, biting cold, curling up in a ball with his back to the bars, ignoring Hamlane when he came to dress the wound. Defiance all he had left, shutting out the bastard who did this to him, along with the hellish conditions, and the humiliating life that had been thrust upon him.

Once left blissfully alone, tears, more of anger than pain fell unhindered as he wondered what the hell he'd ever done to deserve this? Or maybe he did. Perhaps this was payback for a life of crime? Maybe he was a thief, or worse, a murderer? John didn't know. What he did know was slavery was all wrong. Neither was it right to judge someone on the basis of what he once wore around his neck, or a few resentful looks.

Sometimes, when exhaustion won over the constant ache, sleep would come and along with it fuzzy, scattered images. In his dreams he saw a beautiful place full of tall spired buildings that pierced the sky. Then later he would join them, flying…Higher and higher, deeper into the blue, the feeling of exhilaration almost palpable as the clouds raced by, even though it was only a dream.

Then he started to shiver, and the image, memory, whatever it was, smashed into a million pieces as the dingy cell came in view. Whether any part was real, or it was just a dream taking him away from this freaking place, John didn't know, but with no memory of his former life, and the prospect of years of misery ahead, he was running out of hope.

Still, regardless of the indignity heaped upon him, he was determined not to give the Chamberlain what he wanted. They could brand him, keep him starving and in chains, even beat him if they wanted, but they would never break him. No matter what they did, he would never accept the life of a slave. Slavery was wrong on every kind of level, and regardless of what it cost him, he would never yield in that way to any man. In branding him, rather than making him subservient to their wishes, the deep, searing pain had unleashed a rage that even now was threatened to consume him. He was a man with no past, no ties, and now no hope… a dangerous combination.

He was determined they would never enforce their will upon him, yet he knew this far from civilisation, and fitted with debilitating bracelets ready to bring him to his knees, he might never be able to get away. Given the circumstances, John made the only choice open to him…if he couldn't escape, he would rather die than live this way. Except a nagging thought kept telling him they wouldn't leave him behind, but didn't know who _they _were, their voices silent, their faces hidden beyond the dark void. It was just a feeling, but John was so desperate, he couldn't be sure if this was just another figment of his imagination, or a forlorn hope tricking him to keep holding on.

ooooOoooo

At the sound of the familiar footsteps John nearly stumbled, as, with his movements severely restricted by the chains, he struggled to his feet wondering if today's meal was the turkey dinner he'd ordered, or the usual cold slop and mug of water.

The wry smile soon died on his lips though, as he couldn't be sure how long he'd been there, but his ragged boxers, once sitting snugly round his waist, were now loose, and in serious danger of falling round his feet. So, the daily meal, unpalatable at best, could not to be refused as it was all there was. Today, though, he wasn't hungry. He felt numb from the cold, his body aching from lying on the hard stone floor, especially his arm, but the nausea had chased starvation away. John didn't feel well, but was damned if they were going to find out…no way would he let them see him beaten.

"Good evening, John. How are you feeling today?" John gave himself a mental shake, realising Hamlane had got the drop on him and appeared while he was daydreaming.

"Just peachy, thanks," he replied, trying to sound upbeat and forcing a smile on his face. "But I don't think much of the jewellery." John raised his chaffed wrists in response. "Plus you're needing to do something about the heating."

Hamlane shook his head sadly, without even cracking a smile at his bad joke, and John realised he was probably in trouble…again.

"So, I see you still aren't ready to assume your duties, or for that matter show me any respect," Hamlane muttered, his tone annoyed as he shook his head.

"Well, Chamberlain, where I come from respect has to be earned," John responded, aware that his answer probably sounded insolent, but at this point feeling a little reckless, and damn it to hell…he no longer cared.

Hamlane folded his arms then stared at him, as if trying to size him up. "And where is this place with such high ideals, John? Have you been able to remember yet?" he asked in feigned curiosity "Or are you, as I initially surmised, just a trouble maker with a lot of fine words, who needs to be taught his place."

"If only I could remember, then maybe you would start treating _me_ with some respect," John responded, giving the Chamberlain a scathing look. "Look, buddy, while it's true I can't remember anything about my life, or my faults for that matter, I'm pretty sure, being a liar isn't one of them," he replied, his low voice not disguising his contempt for the man on the other side of the bars.

"How long have you been in here now, John? Five, Six days?" Hamlane asked, although John knew the question was rhetorical.

"Wouldn't know…time flies when you're having fun," John shrugged, trying to seem unconcerned, reluctant to show the bastard how much he was suffering.

"Come now, John. You're not going to tell me that the prospect of a hot meal and a good night's sleep in a comfortable bed isn't appealing?" Hamlane tempted. John kept his expression stoic, not wanting to give the big guy any clue as to how much the offer appealed. "No comment to that, John?" he said pressing the issue. "Can I take it that means you're still not willing to yield to the Master?"

"There's only one master of my destiny…and that's me," John answered simply, but it was clear from the flash of anger, quickly suppressed in the brown eyes, Hamlane didn't like the reply.

"Well, I can see that you obviously enjoy the conditions down here far too much." A grim smile grew on Hamlane's face. "Durand." The Chamberlain turned, and spoke to the tall, blonde-haired youth by his side. "Set about making John a little more _comfortable_, would you?" he asked, then continued addressing himself to both men, but looking at John pointedly. "And no food, only water for the next couple of days."

John felt his stomach lurch as the tall guard opened the door and immediately grabbed him, then threw him against the wall. He tried to resist, but winced as the all too familiar sharp bite of the needles once again did their job. Soon he could barely stand, his limbs, like lead, were unable to move, as the youth forced his arms above his head, throwing the narrow chain between his wrists over a hook lodged deep in the rough, cold stone half way up the wall.

By the time he was finished, John was unable to sit or stand. The only position possible an agonising half-squatting, crouched arrangement as he swung uncomfortably between the floor and wall. Earlier that morning, John hadn't thought he could be any more miserable, but he'd been wrong. His arm, already painful before, was now unbearable, his weak legs aching under the strain, and his long, narrow back, now twisted to its limits, was already seizing into spasms.

"Perhaps a few uncomfortable nights, and an empty belly will change your attitude," Hamlane pronounced, in an amused tone, clearly happy with his handiwork. "However, you should be aware that the Master is growing impatient, and unless you accept your servitude soon….well, let's just say he is a far less tolerant man than I."

John cussed under his breath as the two men slammed the barred door, then walked away leaving him literally hanging. It had only been minutes, but already every muscle in his body was screaming, and, already in pain before, John didn't know how long he could stand this. If he called them back now and apologised, agreed to accept his lot, he reckoned Hamlane might just release him, but at what cost – his pride?

Yet, as soon as the thought entered his head, he knew instantly, despite his misery, that was all he had left. So he squeezed his eyes shut, pulled in a shuddering breath, and prepared to endure the endless night, hoping somewhere along the way the visions would return and take him to a happier place.

ooooOoooo

Despite the constant pain, at some point during the long, miserable hours leading to dawn, exhaustion finally claimed him. Although by the time Durand released him next morning, his body felt dead, nothing worked and he fell boneless to the floor. Soon though, his suffering began anew as nerves starved of oxygen suddenly sprang to life. White hot shafts of pain spiked through every muscle as he writhed in agony, and he bite his lip till the sharp metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, trying desperately not to cry out.

After what seemed like an eternity, the torture finally passed and as the blood flowed freely once more. John breathed a sigh of relief that he was left with only the pounding in his head, and the dull throbbing ache in his arm to contend with. Unfortunately he soon realising something was wrong, as despite the freezing temperature in the ice cold cell, he felt hot, his skin clammy and warm to the touch…he was sick.

Not fully recovered from his previous injuries, John wasn't completely surprised when even in the gloomy cell he saw the large oval burn on his arm had became infected. It wasn't the escape he hoped for or ever wanted, but disheartened, he finally accepted he was well and truly screwed. Now, his only chance was if he managed to conceal his illness, then with luck the fever would take hold before anyone noticed, and release him from the misery that was now his life.

He wasn't a quitter, but faced with a choice of spending the rest of his days enslaved, or death…it was no contest. It wasn't the way he wanted to die, or even his second or third choice, but he would take it all the same. John just hoped by huddling into the corner and turning his back on the guards, Hamlane would think he was still pissed, so would leave him in peace, giving him the time he needed to gain back some control over his life, or at the very least, his death.

The darkened corner the perfect place to conceal the tell tale flush of damp, fevered skin, and the shivers that racked his body. Food was denied him, but that, too, played into his hands, as an untouched meal would have aroused suspicion, because sick to his stomach, John was already struggling to control the dry heaves, thankful only water was pushed through the bars.

Weakened by hunger and illness, it took all of his strength to still his shaking limbs long enough to hide his condition when Durand entered the cell to put him back into the same sadistic position as the night before. The young guard too intent on his task to even notice the heat radiating in waves from his clammy skin, and the glazed eyes that didn't even try to protest, as he once again secured him to the wall.

This time, though, the fresh assault of pain as ravaged muscles once again went into spasms, was nearly his undoing, the nightmare of before intensified by the shuddering waves as shivers tore through his body. In agony now, each tiny movement proved torturous, and he cried. Tears of fear, frustration and anger at what he was being forced to do. He felt ashamed of himself, knowing it was wrong to just give up like this, but what else could he do?

During the long, agonising hours of darkness, John realised he'd been dumb to believe there would ever be a rescue, because it was obvious now he'd been abandoned. He was unwanted, thrown out like so much garbage and left to die under the baking sun to become a worthless dried out husk, fodder for the wildlife in the desert. Demoralised, he realised the gnawing feeling that there was someone out there who cared was nothing more than the fading hope of a desperate man. He hated to admit it, but in one respect John knew Hamlane was right, he must face facts. There was no one looking for him, because who cared about the death of a worthless slave?

ooooOoooo

TBC

Well, the whump has begun in earnest...Hope you liked, and please let me know what you think.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks again for the reviews and the alerts, they mean a lot.**

**Well, what has Atlantis been doing to find their missing Military Commander? Read on and find out!**

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 9

Rodney couldn't recall where or when he remembered him from, but there was something familiar about the smug, supercilious expression that made him positive he'd met the slim, fair-haired man before. The cut of his ornate, golden robes was oddly reminiscent of a race they'd once encountered, bringing back a strange memory of falling, and nearly dying in some sort of tunnel. Then, after a '_d'oh_ moment, and resisting the urge to hit himself on the head as per Homer Simpson, he stupidly realised that would probably describe most of the missions he'd been on, the whole nearly dying thing a regular occurrence being part of Sheppard's team.

Still, while Woolsey was doing his diplomatic thing, and giving the usual spiel they gave to new prospective trading partners, he cast a discreet sideways glance at the not so strange stranger, trying to figure out where they'd met. The impressive castle they were currently in, turned out to be another clue, as suddenly like a bolt out the blue it hit him.

"I know you," Rodney blurted out, interrupting Woosley in full flow, incurring a warning glare in the process. "You were one of the nobles from the Tower!" he squeaked, happy that his memory hadn't failed him. "In fact, you kinda remind me of that Tavius guy, the one with the hot sister, Mara."

By now he could practically see the steam coming from Woolsey's ears, but was on too much of a roll to care. "Hold on…wait a minute, I remember now. Didn't your title once belong to that old guy who was poisoned?" Rodney asked, and to his satisfaction he saw momentary confusion cross the smug face before the man quickly composed himself.

"As a matter of fact, I thought I recognised you, Doctor McKay, when you first walked in. You are also correct regarding the family resemblance, as Mara and Tavius are distant cousins though my fathers line, although unfortunately I haven't seen them since I left the Tower many years ago," the man replied, his voice now completely unfazed by the revelation. "However, with regards to the title, Lord Protector is a generic designation used amongst my people to describe the ruler of the household."

Before Rodney could speak again, Woolsey drew him a dirty look and interrupted. "Please excuse me, Lord Protector, but I must admit to being at a disadvantage here, as I was not present in Atlantis at the time of that particular mission," he pointed out, then asked. "However, can I assume that if you recognise Doctor McKay, you would also remember Colonel Sheppard?"

"Certainly," he nodded, "although the man who brought enlightenment to our people was only a major then, but I assume we are talking about the same man?"

"Yes, yes…of course," Rodney muttered impatiently, already suspicious about him after remembering what a bunch of petty, spoiled people the nobles were. "Forgive me if I'm out of line here, Lord Chancellor, but I got the distinct impression you guys weren't too amused at Sheppard after he arranged for the gene therapy to be given to everyone. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but afterwards, didn't the peasants' _enlightenment_ shift the balance of power to them…is that why you left?"

"Doctor McKay!" Woolsey glared at him, his clipped tone showing he was clearly annoyed. However the ex- nobleman merely raised his hand to forestall any further protest, and gave Rodney a searching look.

"Please, Mr Woolsey do not concern yourself…Doctor McKay's assertion was quite correct," he said, with no appearance of bitterness, as he rose and crossed the room to help himself to a glass of wine from an ornate crystal decanter on the credenza, before returning to sit behind the desk. "It's completely true. When Major Sheppard thwarted the plans of the Lord Chamberlain, and then, your good Doctor Beckett distributed the gene therapy to the peasants, we, the nobles, quickly lost our hold on power. Not long afterwards, unsurprisingly, there was an uprising so, finding we were no longer welcome I, along with many of the court, decided to seek our fortunes elsewhere."

Rodney watched, thirsty, as the ungracious host took a long sip, before continuing.

"I will admit that in the beginning, I, along with the other displaced nobles, was extremely angry with the major for his interference, but in the end, I realised he actually did me a favour." he continued, as he eased himself further back into his chair, appearing completely relaxed. "After I left, it was necessary to earn a living for the first time in my life, and, forced to fend for myself, I discovered I had quite a talent for business and quickly amassed a small fortune." Then putting down the glass he sighed, looking sad. "Of course I had to give it all up when I got word my uncle had passed, leaving this castle and all of his estate to me. To be frank, Mr Woolsey, it wasn't what I wanted, but I'm the last of his line, and the people here need a ruler," he said, sounding extremely righteous, as he lifted up the glass again to drain the remainder of the contents, before looking over and giving Woolsey a quizzical glance. "By the way, where is Colonel Sheppard, I thought he would have joined you today?"

"Actually, Lord Protector that is one of the reasons why we're here…" Woolsey started to speak, clearly embarrassed that the real reason for the visit had been revealed so soon, when Rodney heard a knock on the door, and everyone turned to see the entrance of a large, well-built man, with long red hair.

"Master. I apologise for the interruption, but there is a problem with one of the..._staff_. May I have leave to call the physician?" The man bowed his head slightly, but it was obvious he was worried.

"I am sure it's nothing that you won't be able to handle yourself. After all, Chamberlain, that is what you're paid for. Now as you can see I am in the middle of a meeting…" As the master of the house rudely dismissed him, Rodney saw a flash of anger cloud the big guy's face just for a second, before he quickly concealed it and nodded sharply before leaving the room.

The Lord Protector waited until the door closed, then smiled apologetically. "I do apologise for the interruption…now what were you saying, Mr Woolsey?"

Woolsey coughed, to clear his throat. "As I was saying, although we are here to establish trading links with your people, I was also hoping you would be able to furnish me with some information."

"Of course, I would like to help in any way that I can." The blonde head bobbed, as the man leaned forward and put his arms on the desk clasping his hands, appearing curious. "What is it you would like to know?"

Woolsey asked pointedly, but politely, the $64,000 question. "Colonel Sheppard went missing while on a mission to the Pallonian settlement over two weeks ago, and I'm given to understand, you were purchasing some livestock from the Pallonian's on the same day. I wondered if you'd seen him or knew of his whereabouts."

There was a moment's silence when the blue eyes became like ice. "That's unfortunate, but no, I didn't see him while I was there. Why would you think I know anything?" the Lord Protector asked, clearly annoyed.

Much to Rodney's admiration, Woolsey ignored the dark look and continued undaunted. "It is not my intention to accuse you of anything, Lord Protector, but from one leader to another, I am sure you understand we need to follow up every lead."

Almost instantly, the anger dissipated as a bland mask appeared, and he nodded his head sadly. "Of course, and I'm terribly sorry I can't help, but as I've already said, I didn't see Colonel Sheppard during my visit. In fact, I didn't stay long at all, because just as I was concluding my business with Chief Falack, he told me they were preparing to whip some poor man to test his courage. He asked if I wanted to stay and watch, but as I can't abide violence of any kind, I quickly paid for my purchases and left."

As Woolsey went on to explain that Sheppard was the victim Falack had spoken spoke of, Rodney saw the man cringe, a feeling he well understood, having been unable to get a decent night's sleep since Teyla told him what went down that day. The graphic nightmares woke him up shaking, covered in sweat, as he envisaged his friend hanging upside down getting brutally whipped.

How Sheppard got himself into so much trouble, Rodney didn't know. John could be snarky, impatient and irritated the hell out of him sometimes, but the flyboy was smart and a good friend. He didn't deserve all the crap that went his way, and as for getting beat up for trying to help a kid…that really was the pits. Still, from watching the expression on Teyla's face, it was obvious she was thinking what he was - this lead was a bust. By all appearances, while the Lord Protector might be an arrogant SOB, the guy didn't know anything.

However, just as Woolsey was about to continue speaking, the Lord Protector suddenly got to his feet, clearly signalling the short meeting was over. "I hope you'll excuse me as I have other business to attend to, but you can be assured, Mr Woolsey, that if I do come across any information, I will, of course, contact you immediately."

Undaunted, Woolsey slowly rose from the high backed wooden chair and made to leave, showing no trace of embarrassment at being effective thrown out. "Thank you, I appreciate that. But regarding the matter of the trading agreement, do you wish to reschedule a return visit for another time?"

For a moment, Rodney saw the blonde man hesitate, then put out his hand. "If you leave me your contact details, I may be in touch…although honestly, I think Etraska can do without another trading partner at the moment."

To his credit, Woolsey appeared to ignore the rebuff, and gave a ghost of a smile as he handed over details of an identification code for the Etrakians to use should they change their minds, then turned in no particular rush, to give him and the others a nod to make their way out the castle.

Ronon looked pissed, and Teyla's pale face bereft as she quickly made towards the door, and despite also feeling demoralised, Rodney felt for his Athosian teammate, as in spite of everything anyone said, he knew she still felt guilty for leaving John in the desert.

No one spoke as the dejected group made their way back across the wooden drawbridge, not one comment about what could be lurking within the moats murky depths. They all remained silent, but he knew they were thinking the same thing, knowing as the large gates slammed behind them, so had the door on their last decent lead…

ooooOoooo

Garmend was exhausted. It had been a gruelling few weeks at the conference, but he was confident Etraska's future was secure, at least for the time being. Pleased he'd managed to negotiate a small increase in profits from the trading agreements set in place, though now longing for a hot bath, a warm meal and an early night.

At least he did, until he met the delegation from Atlantis just as he arrived through the 'gate, then his heart sank. Confronted with the unfamiliar faces wearing what was obviously some sort of military attire, he wondered if they might be an advance party seeking to invade his estate. However, after speaking to their leader, a Mr Woolsey, he was only partly relieved to find out while the Atlantians were only seeking information and trade, his shiftless nephew had been at it again.

Furious, he couldn't believe Ballam actually had the gall to mislead these strangers into thinking that not only was he dead, but that Ballam himself was the Lord Protector. Besides the lying, it was also downright reckless to send away a potential ally, especially one who might be able to provide some assistance should the Wraith turn their attention to his small empire. As it was, some of his former associates had been missing from the trading forum this year, either dead, or their lands so devastated by culling they were left with nothing. In any case, Garmend hoped these Atlantians might be able to help him with another problem - something more personal, as for some time now he'd been plagued by stomach cramps, and so far none of the doctors he'd consulted had been able to help.

These were uncertain times, and although Etraska was faring better than most, with larger yields of crops, fruit and increased cattle production, the fact remained that even he would have to sell off at least one additional breeding pair of slaves to maintain his profit margin. It was something he was loath to do, as many of the older slaves were not as productive as they used to be, but neither would they fetch much if he were to sell them at market…Still, in the end, Garmend conceded that might may be the only solution.

The hot flush of humiliation still lingered at having to lie in order to save his reputation, and to prevent Ballam's tall tales from bringing the house of Etraska into disrepute, although he was now reasonably sure the astute Mr Woolsey believed his story that Ballum suffered mental health problems. The sad story of his nephew's lapses after a near tragic riding accident had been suitably convincing, though completely untrue. It was a shameless deception he wasn't proud of, but at least the bespectacled man seemed to believe him, as he'd merely smiled and agreed to return for further talks the following week.

His head was pounding just thinking about what he was going to do with the feckless young man. If Ballum was one of his slaves the solution would be simple. He would have him thrown into the dungeon or even whipped, but he wasn't…the boy was family, the most direct heir left of the Calunda dynasty, and the eventual head of Etraska upon his ultimate demise.

Of course, Garmend realised he should have married, but having taken succession when he was only nineteen upon the death of his own esteemed father, there never seemed to be the time. Now it was unfortunately much too late. He was an old man, nearly in his seventieth year, and with no heirs, at least none eligible to the throne, he had reached out to the last of his line… regrettably to find the biggest degenerate in the whole of Pegasus. How his fine family was reduced to this corrupt, lazy man he didn't know, but only hoped under his guidance Ballum could change…

Action was required, though, as this particular misdemeanour could not be overlooked. But what to do?

"Hamlane…is that you?" Out of the corner of his eye, Garmend saw a flash of the distinctive red hair as his Chamberlain started down the stairs to the dungeon.

"Lord Protector. It's good to have you back, Master." The man halted his progress and quickly came before him, giving him a low bow and wearing a relieved smile on his face.

Garmend was fond of Hamlane. The man was honest, hardworking and everything Ballam wasn't. Even the slaves respected him, although it was a respect tinged with fear, just as it should be - given his role. "I was just coming to see you, Chamberlain. I understand my nephew had visitors today."

"Yes, but I only found out myself when I went to see him," Hamlane replied calmly, but Garmend knew his Chamberlain well enough by now to detect a note of resentment in his low grating voice.

"I trust he accorded you the respect your position deserves, Hamlane?" When he saw an embarrassed flush spread over the big man's face, he guessed he'd been right - Ballam had obviously humiliated him again in front of strangers, so he pressed the issue. "I would like to think by now, Chamberlain, you would trust me with the truth, so please…tell me what happened."

Hamlane seemed to think about what he was going to say before he replied. "I'm sure he didn't really mean it, Master...however, if I may put the same request to you?"

"Certainly, what is it you want?" Garmend asked, curious as to what troubled his Chamberlain so much that he could risk incurring the wrath of his nephew when Ballam found out he'd gone over his head.

"The new slave is very ill. A serious infection has set in where he was branded, and it's gone too far for me to treat without medical intervention…I would like permission to call in a physician," Hamlane asked, a note of concern clear in his voice.

Garmend was puzzled. When he'd left over three weeks ago there were no new slaves, which begged the question, who was this new acquisition, and what was more pertinent – who had authorised his purchase? "Hamlane, I don't recall buying a new slave, and even if I had, there would have been no reason to have him branded. Is Master Ballam responsible for this?"

Hamlane nodded, again appearing uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Master, I forgot that you were away on business at the time..."

"Do not be concerned, Chamberlain, I just need to know what happened," Garmend interrupted, then listened intently while Hamlane told him the whole sorry tale. Anger growing with every word, as he realised the full extent of what his worthless nephew had been up to while he was away.

When his faithful servant finally finished, he nodded, silently considering what to do next. "So, what you are saying is this man has become ill, because my nephew resurrected a defunct method of marking ownership that hasn't been used here for some time?"

"I would not like to lay the blame at the young Master's door, Lord Protector. After all, the slave's weakened condition beforehand probably contributed to his illness," Hamlane pointed out, generously in Garmend's view, giving Ballam the benefit of the doubt.

"Your loyalty to my nephew is commendable, but undeserved, Hamlane," Garmend muttered under his breath, as he folded his arms and looked up to the fading light streaming through the window, trying to make a decision. "Fine, send for the physician. As you know I don't usually like setting this type of precedent, but due my nephew's reckless behaviour …I will deduct the fee from his allowance."

Garmend was sure he detected the other man's lips twitching, but chose to ignore it, unable to blame him for laughing, as he found the small revenge amusing himself. All too aware even that small loss of income would probably hurt Ballam more than the bite of any whip.

"Now, I am heading to my chambers," Garmend went to move away, then stopped, and turned to address Hamlane once more. "Could you ask Madam Tresin to arrange for some refreshment to be brought to my quarters? Nothing too fancy, just some cold cuts and some wine…perhaps Marella could bring it. She is a sweet child, and if prevailed upon might just tell me some of the more amusing gossip since I've been away." He smiled, trying to share the small joke, but upon watching the colour drain from Hamlane's face, his blood ran cold.

"I'm so sorry, Master. Marella was found cavorting with another slave…" Hamlane suddenly stopped, appearing uncharacteristically upset, so Garment waited for a moment, until the man regained his composure and continued. "I intended to punish them by having them spend a few days in the dungeon, but then the young Master found out and took the matter out of my hands."

Anger welled up for the third time that day, and it wasn't lost on Garmend that he'd only been back for less than an hour. His return home turning into a nightmare, but he still needed to know what the boy had done.

"Spit it out, man…what did he make you do?"

"He ordered them whipped, fifteen lashes…but it was too much for the young girl to bear and she died shortly afterwards…" Hamlane's voice filled with remorse and trailed away, leaving both men stunned in the silent corridor.

All thoughts of a quiet night now shattered, Garmend turned to Hamlane and spoke in a low, calm voice laced with steel. "Belay my last instruction, Hamlane, as I appear to have lost my appetite. I would, however, like to speak to my nephew. Bring him to my office please…**now**, and if he refuses, drag him there in chains if you have to."

ooooOoooo

TBC

**Well did that surprise you? Hope you enjoyed, and please let me know what you think.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks again for the reviews and the alerts - I'm glad you're still enjoying the story.**

**So now we have a clue why John ended up at the castle, but how is he? **

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 10

When Durand had raised the alarm that morning after finding the new slave unresponsive in the cell, Hamlane cursed himself for having been so careless.

While it was his job to ensure compliance amongst the workforce, he prided himself on only inflicting such discipline as was necessary, rarely using the whip, except in extreme cases, as in his experience violence was not the way to gain trust or moderate behaviour in the long term. Besides, he was only too aware that the harsh punishment left the victim debilitated for days and sometimes, like the poor child, Marella, was too much pain for some to cope with.

Anger still burned in him, along with the sick feeling of remorse at the needless death of the pretty young girl. The fact that the Master was now home and dealing with his nephew, while satisfying, did not take away the humiliation he suffered at Ballam's hand. His refusal to respect his position and then overriding his method of discipline in favour of a vicious whipping, still rankled, but more than that, it had been unnecessary. Marella had been a good girl, with a promising future ahead, and certainly didn't deserve to die such a violent death.

Hamlane felt ashamed, realising that despite his refusal to whip the child himself, he still should have done more to stop it. But he'd been afraid - afraid that he would be the next to endure the bite of the hard leather straps, but also concerned about what his continued defiance against the next Lord Protector would mean, not just for his future, but also for the rest of the household if he were to lose what influence he had. At least thanks to Ballam's unwilling _generosity_, Hamlane could now at least make some amends to this slave for the unnecessary branding the sadistic young master had ordered. He just hoped it wasn't too late.

John's deathly pallor and deep, weeping cuts were evidence he'd lost consciousness at some point during the night, leaving him hanging limp, with only his wrists supporting his weight for hours. Too many hours it would seem, judging by the large pool of blood gathered beneath his feet, the man himself so cold, so still, Hamlane had at first thought he was dead. Acutely aware if this man were to die, he couldn't entirely place all the blame on Ballam's needless branding, as some of the blood congealing on the floor would also be on his hands for failing to judge the situation with his usual skill.

Hamlane watched in silence from the back of the room while the physician tended the sick man, wondering how long John had been ill. Obviously several days judging by the state of the angry, swollen arm, seeping puss from the ragged incision. His pale skin shone, almost luminous against the crisp white sheets as he shivered and struggled to breathe. It was now clear he had concealed his illness from them, using cunning and deception to hide his distress and allow the treatable wound to become badly infected. From all appearances he'd planned on the fever taking his life. John wanted to die – the question was why?

Right from their first meeting, Hamlane had realised there was something different about him. John's manner suggesting, even then, he was unlike any other slave he'd met. Initially, he'd thought him arrogant and his story a tall tale at best. Now, though, while it wasn't unusual for someone to protest against their servitude, being prepared to die to avoid being enslaved was a completely different matter. It was now clear John's remonstrations were born out of genuine belief, because in Hamlane's view, choosing death over a life of slavery could only mean one thing…John truly believed he was a free man.

If that was the case, then who was he, and why had the young master saved him from the desert? With Ballam it was hard to tell; he was a consummate liar, with not one grain of generosity or compassion in his worthless body. Therefore, as far as he could guess, John had only been brought here for one of two reasons, either personal gain or revenge. Which one Hamlane couldn't be certain, although revenge was the more likely option, as what profit could be gained from a damaged slave?

"Chamberlain, do you know what this is?" Distracted by his thoughts, Hamlane hadn't realised the physician was standing before him, with his palm outstretched, holding a small piece of deformed metal.

Almost obscured by blood and small pieces of flesh, he could scarcely make it out, but whatever it once was, had been destroyed by the fiery heat of the branding iron. "I don't know, Doctor, but it's not like anything I've ever seen before," he replied, curious. "I'll show it to the Lord Protector. He might know because before Master Garmend took office, he used to be an accomplished inventor; in fact, it was him who designed the bracelets worn by the slaves."

The physician went over to a small metal basin and washed his hands while he spoke. "Well, whatever it is was the main cause of infection. It appears when the brand seared through the flesh, it also melted this metal device, which was hidden underneath his skin. Unlucky really, as he could have been branded anywhere else without any long term problems, also a bit strange when you consider that it would only be the recipient or the person who put it there, who would be aware of its presence."

He paused, then turned to give John a curious sideways glance. "Anyway, I've cleaned the wound as well as possible, but unfortunately, the infection has already taken hold so it may be too late. This medicine," he handed Hamlane a slim clear glass bottle, containing a yellow liquid, "is an antibiotic which may help, but we'll have to wait and see. In the meantime, keep bathing him with cold water, then if the fever breaks, keep him warm and give him plenty of fluids."

Hamlane nodded, surprised to feel almost nervous about the answer to his next question. "What is your prognosis…will he survive? "

"Honestly, I don't know," the physician answered bluntly, then he gave Hamlane a puzzled look. "Why are you so concerned, Chamberlain, he is just a slave after all, easily replaced. In fact, I am amazed the Lord Protector authorised the expense for me to attend him."

For an instant Hamlane was angry, annoyed that someone who was supposed to put health and welfare above all else showed such little regard for human life. Then he suddenly realised…up until Marella had been killed he'd felt the same way. "Well, Doctor, in this instance you are seeing a different type of punishment at work. Your fee is coming out of the young Master's allowance."

"Ahh…now I understand." The physician turned from putting on his coat and smiled. "Still causing trouble is he? Don't worry, your confidence is safe with me. Where is he anyway? It's early for him to retire, and I usually see him lurking around the female slaves' quarters with a glass of wine in his hand."

Now it was Hamlane's turn to give a wry smile. "I really wouldn't know. He's been strangely absent ever since the Lord Protector called him to his chambers earlier this evening…"

ooooOoooo

With barely concealed impatience, Streya waited until nightfall before leaving the small, dingy room she'd once shared with Marella. Yet, while she was glad there was no one to question her absence, the death of her best friend had left a dark, hollow void in her life. It broke her heart to know they would never again laugh about the day's gossip, or talk late into the night sharing their hopes and dreams for the future.

Shrouded by darkness, she peeked round the rough wooden door, and, seeing the corridor deserted, made her way quickly outside. Her mouth was dry and her heart raced, only too aware breaking curfew was a serious offence, but cast caution to the wind - desperate to find the answer to her question. The corridors were deserted this late at night with everyone asleep, exhausted by their labours. She, too, was tired, but undaunted, Streya moved quietly along, taking small sections at a time, ducking behind the stone pillars at the slightest sound. Fortunately no one else was there, the only witness to her offence…a small brown mouse.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity…she was there. The laundry empty this time of night, but the lingering heat from the large machines welcome, warming her cool skin after her short but chilly journey through the castle.

Evaelund, the junior housemaid who worked there, was known to be lazy, and for once Streya hoped the small, freckled girl had lived up to her reputation as she searched through the masses of clothing still to be washed, endless piles of dirty tunics and pants not to mention…unmentionables, piled high against the wall. The musty smell was oppressive, assaulting her nostrils, making her gag as she vainly covered her mouth with her hand, only hoping the end result would be worth it.

Aware that dawn would soon be upon them, heralding the start of a new day, Streya worked faster, praying she wouldn't be discovered, but more than that, she was desperate to find the proof she needed, relieved, when she felt the soft, malleable leather under her fingers…she'd found it. His scent was still clinging to the garment, just as he was still clinging to life.

It was pure luck she'd seen the strangers enter the castle that day, immediately recognising the same attire John had been wearing when he arrived. But Streya knew there was danger in making this disclosure to the wrong person, especially without proof. So she'd reluctantly kept silent, but with John gravely ill and rumours flying that he'd hidden his illness because he wanted to die, she realised she would have tell someone…but who?

Tears fell unhindered at the thought of losing another she cared for so soon after the death of her friend, knowing now even if John did survive, he would never be hers. After all, she was just a common slave, and he, the free man he'd always claimed to be. Yet she loved him all the same and always would, so the least she could do was save him from a life he despised or, if the worst happened…let the truth be told and allow him to die free.

ooooOoooo

Hot. He felt hot…roasting, as if stuck in a furnace or damned to the fiery depths of hell.

So that was it then, he'd finally become Satan's house guest, doomed to spend the rest of eternity as barbecued meat. Images of a thick-set man with a pock-marked face laughing, his once grey uniform now mottled with burns, called to him._ "This way, Sheppard…I have a grill with your name on it - right next to the Wraith."_ He knew this man, the gaping hole in his chest familiar…he'd put it there, but why? What had the guy done? Was his death an act of murder or had this man deserved to die?

John shivered, now freezing, the raging heat of before suddenly gone. He was unable to stop shaking as the chills wracked his body, cranking up the pain as he writhed in agony, the image of before gone along with the warmth, but one memory remained…his name.

He was John Sheppard. It had been a second name, not a designation after all, the first small piece of the puzzle falling into place - if only he could remember where he came from.

In the dark recesses of his mind, the blurry image of a woman called to him. Even though it was hazy he could tell she was beautiful, her long hair like molten honey sweeping carelessly around her shoulders, the warm, brown eyes filled with tears. Her lyrical voice, rough with emotion, begged him to hold on…He knew her, but not in that way. She was a friend, one of his best...but he couldn't recall her name.

John felt his eyes moisten, as one by one indistinct but visible images appeared to him all at once. A short, stocky man who never stopped talking, a fierce, well built giant with long braided dread-locked hair flying in the wind, then a soft-spoken man with an lilting accent telling him everything would be okay…Friends, but more than that, they were family. All of a sudden he wasn't alone any more, but they weren't there, he wasn't home…he also wasn't dead.

He groaned, realising while these images had given him fresh hope, the reality of his situation still remained. Every sordid detail of the last few days flooded back - enslaved, branded and thrown into a harsh prison, wearing tight chains that dug painfully into his flesh and barely able to see, the only light visible through a small, round windowless gap, set high in the dark stone wall. Numb with cold, the sound of continuous dripping water had been tortuous as it fell on the ground forming into puddles, leaving the floor and him, constantly frozen and damp.

John didn't want to go back there…he'd wanted to die, but that was before. Now he knew there were others out there, somewhere where people cared for him, and he might not know their names yet, but he was sure of one thing. They would be searching for him, because his people never left anyone behind.

A cool, damp cloth touched his skin and he shivered, the shock springing his eyes wide to reveal Hamlane wiping his face, the man impassive as his expression gave nothing away.

Instinctively jerking away from the man's touch, he groaned as all the aches in his body, especially the white hot pain searing through his arm, made themselves felt. "Mnmnph…go…away!"

"Sorry, John, but I can't do that…someone has to take care of you." Then Hamlane reached for a glass, which he placed against his lips, and John, despite his reservations about his benefactor, drank the cool water greedily, savouring the relief it brought to his rough, dry throat.

"Streya?" John looked around for his former nursemaid, and wondered where she was.

Hamlane put down the damp cloth he was holding and gave him a wry smile. "Streya will not be tending you this time, John. It was clear to Madam Tresin that the girl was becoming too attached to you, an attachment that could have easily got her into trouble."

John stared at the man, not quite trusting what he said, but too stunned to make any response.

"She found your jacket - the one you were wearing when the young Master found you," Hamlane continued. "In fact, the foolish girl broke curfew to search for it."

"Wha…Where is she? Gah!" John tried to get up, worried that she'd been punished, but was paralysed by the nauseating waves of pain searing through his body.

"Calm down, John." The big man eased him back against the pillows, then applied a cold compress to his head. "Apart from giving her a warning about roaming the castle at night, I didn't punish her," he said. Then, giving him a searching look Hamlane continued, "By the way, I though you might be interested to learn it appears to be from the same uniform some visitors who came here were wearing the other day- I believe you could be right, John. It would seem that you may not be a slave after all. However, convincing the Master will be another matter."

"Home…?" John swallowed hard, desperate to find out where these people had come from.

"I don't know where that is yet, but I'll do what I can to help you," Hamlane promised, then John felt a cold splash of water as the cloth was thrown into the bowl. "My title may sound grand, John, but it is just that - a title. I'm only a slave, just as I thought you were." When John tilted his head their eyes locked, but Hamlane looked away, although in John's opinion the man appeared to be frustrated. "Now I can see you are tiring…you must rest."

A tremble made him gasp, and he pulled in a shuddering breath, trying to ride out the pain just as Hamlane gently raised his head once more. This time the glass contained a brown liquid that tasted bitter, but its warming aftertaste wasn't unpleasant. Besides, it quickly eased his distress as soon the pain became muted, more bearable, and he gradually felt his lids begin to droop.

Sleep was pulling him under, and John welcomed the brief respite oblivion would bring. This time, though, he wanted to wake up again…wanted to live. He knew there were still more questions than answers, but at least this time there was also hope.

ooooOoooo

TBC

**Well, our boy is finally getting a bit of TLC, albeit from an unexpected source! I hope you enjoyed the chapter and please review.**

**BTW, apologies, as due to work commitments I will be unable to post again until Wednesday, but after that I intend posting every day until the story is finished - thanks for reading so far! **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N - Hi, sorry for the delay in posting this week, but hopefully, I intend to post every day until the story is finished. Thanks again for all those who have taken the time to review, and to those who are still following the story.**

**Well...we left John on the mend, and feeling a little more positive about the future - so what now?**

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 11

Garmend had missed his lab. In his youth, he had been an accomplished inventor, but when his father died after only a short illness, it had fallen upon him to assume the mantle of leadership at only nineteen. Now, back in the small dingy room where he used to spend so much time, the years seemed to melt away, and it almost seemed as if it were yesterday.

As he rolled the small metal device taken from the slave in his hand, Garmend wondered what it could be. Under the microscope, the badly deformed metal revealed no obvious clues, but he'd heard rumours of other planets that used metal chips to identify slaves or prisoners, and this was certainly small enough to fulfil that purpose. Something he would have liked to develop, if he had time, but now Garmend had a more pressing concern to deal with - how to handle his nephew once his enforced confinement was over.

Gamend really hoped that Ballam would be a more humbled man once he was released from his chambers, although somehow he doubted it. His nephew's comments at being locked up had been so offensive, that he'd left him with no choice but to teach him a lesson, the young man completely stunned when he'd brought out the cane, that Hamlane barely needed to use any of his considerable strength to keep him restrained…at least at first.

It hadn't given him any pleasure to hear his screams, but at least he'd spared the boy from the humiliation of a flogging, a punishment he'd richly deserved, except knowing Ballam, the young man would never see it that way. Of course, Garmend blamed his upbringing, as the Tower, a place of excess and immorality, was an unsuitable place to grow up - especially for his heir. On several occasions over the years, Garmend had asked him to come and join him, but he was under no illusion that his nephew only finally agreed to come after the nobles were overthrown and he was left penniless, with nowhere else to go.

Garmend was concerned that it had been necessary to discipline the boy, but he'd considered the painful lesson essential, not only to punish Ballam for the needless death of the young slave, but also to give him a taste of what real pain felt like. He just hoped it would teach him to use harsh discipline, such as a flogging, as a last resort in future, and would also make his nephew treat him with more respect. However, Garmend was also aware that if he wanted Ballam to get past this incident, he would need to give him a little more leeway in future and encourage him to play a bigger part in the management of the estate, in order to regain his trust and co-operation. Otherwise what he had meant as a lesson in humility could result in Ballam becoming more untrustworthy and resentful than ever.

ooooOoooo

The agony of before was more of an ache, although his arm still hurt like a bitch, but considering everything that had happen since he'd arrived, John reckoned things were looking up.

He still couldn't remember why he'd been whipped, or anything else about his past life for that matter, but the blurry images that came to him in his dreams seemed so real, he had to believe they were. Besides, at least now he didn't feel quite so alone, as there were two people on his side - Streya, who had risked punishment to find his jacket, and Hamlane. He was the one who he was really pinning his hopes on, because as Chamberlain, John knew he was the most influential.

Bleary eyed, he watched as the man himself walked into the room and came to sit on the chair close to his bed. "Good morning, John. How are you feeling today?"

Freaked out would have been the honest response, John still uncomfortable with the concept it was the man who had branded him, then put him in chains, who was now caring for him through his illness.

About to say 'fine', John thought better of it, in case his sojourn would come to an abrupt halt. "Honestly, I feel like crap…and I'm starting to wonder if this arm is ever going to work again." He tried to lift the heavily bound arm and winced, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as the damned limb barely moved.

John clenched his teeth as Hamlane reached over, and, surprisingly gently for a big guy, unwound the bandages to check the raw, livid wound underneath. "The incision still looks infected, John," he said, sounding concerned. "I'll try another poultice on it, but you may have to accept you won't regain full motion in this arm again."

"Damn...that would mean I won't be able to fly again," John moaned, with a panicked edge to his voice.

"Are you a pilot, John?" Hamlane asked, sounding surprised.

He shrugged, then wished he hadn't, as the small motion sent ripples of white hot agony searing through his limb - man it hurt.

"John…_John! _I asked you a question." John could barely hear Hamlane's persistent voice penetrating at the edges of his pain.

"Sorry…" His voice was slurred, but John realised despite being in agony, he must get a grip, as Hamlane wasn't a man to be ignored. "I honestly don't know where that came from. Maybe I am…do you have any craft in the castle?"

Hamlane paused, then gave him a searching look before eventually answering. "The young master arrived in one, but I doubt he will let you test out your theory."

"Suppose not," John replied, feeling depressed at the thought, then suddenly realised there was something he'd never thought to ask before. "Was that how he brought me here?"

"Yes, Master Ballam brought you here in his ship, although why it matters to you, I don't know," Hamlane snapped, and John noticed his expression had turned cynical.

John chuckled slightly, before wincing and moaning softly. "You're right…it shouldn't, but for some reason that doesn't make any sense, it just seemed important for a …"

"Enough!" Hamlane interrupted "While I may have reason to believe you, John, until the Master has decided on the matter, you are still a slave here, and as such need to watch your tongue. It will not help your case with the Lord Protector or with me, if you start roaming around this castle unsupervised…do you understand?"

John's smile swiftly faded, and he nodded very slowly - he did understand, only too well. Understood if he wanted to be set free to search for the life he'd lost, he would have to be a very good boy and toe the line. Therefore, he would do what he was told…or at least appear to, and definitely not get caught searching for that craft.

"You still have a temperature, I see." The awkward moment of before seemed to have passed as Hamlane proceeded to place the back of his hand against John's brow. "As you know, I have spoken to the Master on your behalf, and while he is willing to grant you an audience once you are recovered, in the meantime I have been instructed to keep you locked up…I'm sorry."

As John watched, Hamlane rose to his feet and walked over to the foot of the bed. Once there, he pulled up a manacle that was attached by a short chain to the bed post, then firmly secured it around his ankle. With the snap of the chain his heart sank, John realising the tight, cold metal put paid to any slim hope of escape. Now painfully aware it was going to be up to the Lord Protector if he was ever going to be a free man again.

ooooOoooo

If there was anything John had learnt about himself over the last few weeks, it was that he was a stubborn SOB. That, and he didn't scare easily.

Right now, though, he was terrified, frightened that on the say of one man he could lose his freedom for good, knowing if that happened he would never again be able to determine his own fate. Worse still, the loss of liberty would also deny him the chance to search for his home and the people who appeared in his dreams. He still didn't know who they were, as although the faces were becoming clearer, their names, and even the beautiful city set in the background, were proving as elusive as ever.

John didn't know how long he'd been sick, but once back on his wobbly legs, Hamlane had, with reluctance, removed him from the small but comfortable room and returned him to a cell. Just like the last one, it too lacked a bed, but while it wasn't much warmer, at least this time John was allowed to stay clothed, and was given a couple of blankets to keep out the worst of the cold. His chains through remained, although he wasn't forced against the wall at night, which was a blessing, since his right arm was still pretty much useless, and he was unable to lift it higher than a few inches without causing extreme pain.

Today, though, would determine the rest of his life, and although he was confident in Hamlane's support, it was his _Master, _the Lord Protector, he must convince or else…well, John really didn't want to go there.

Dressed in fresh clothes, and having been allowed extra water to do more than wipe the grime from his face, he felt reasonably clean. Hamlane also seemed to approve, as he gave him an absent nod and grunted, before firmly taking hold of his good arm and leading him back into the main body of the castle.

Time had lost all meaning since coming here, but John shuddered when they passed the room where he'd been branded, wondering how long ago the horrendous events of that day took place. It seemed like an eternity since he'd been literally brought to his knees and lost all hope, but today, somehow things felt different.

Although he couldn't remember everything, his gut told him he was John Sheppard, a man who belonged to the city in his dreams, where there were people, friends, who cared for him…who were probably searching for him right now. John realised that might seem like so much hooey to others, but it was that belief that kept his hopes alive.

As they waited outside the green, leather-lined door, John was pretty sure Hamlane had put his job on the line for him. The big man seemed apprehensive, his relatively relaxed demeanour of before gone, now replaced with a bland, impassive mask, as he raised his fist and knocked firmly three times. He was just starting to wonder if anyone had heard them when a distant voice within the room bid them to enter.

John tried to still the violent thudding of his heart as he was ushered into the room. It was huge, with long, narrow wooden beams set into the high ceiling, and coloured light streaming from the numerous stained-glass windows lining the sandstone walls. Even the throne looked impressive. It was made of gold and almost dwarfed the elderly man ensconced there, but the steely, grey eyes of the Lord Protector told a different story. His expression firm, suspicious and belied the sickly pallor clearly visible even from where John was standing.

"Bring the slave forward, Chamberlain." As John was guided forward, he had the chance to get a better look at his Master, and realised immediately that although the man was no longer young, the firm set of his jaw told him he was definitely not a guy to mess with. "So…I understand you have convinced my Chamberlain you are a free man?"

John swallowed, trying to get some moisture in his throat before speaking. "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lord Protector, and as to your question, while I can understand the circumstances of my discovery were a little weird and did raise some questions, I none the less still believe I am a free man." While he was speaking, John stood up as straight as the chains would allow, and put as much conviction into his tone as he could manage.

For a moment there was silence, and he felt like a freaking exhibit, as the statesman scanned him up and down, just like he was a piece of cattle coming up for auction. "Tell me, John…how can you be so certain when you've lost your memory?" he asked.

He was expecting this question, so answered easily. "Thankfully, my memory is starting to return, and although I still don't know where I come from, I have started to remember some things like my name, and the faces of my friends." John realised he'd nearly forgotten something, so carried on talking before the old man could interrupt. "I also have the jacket I arrived in, which I understand is the same uniform as some visitors who came here recently, so, if you could just allow me to meet them - "

"Silence!" John felt Hamlane's hand on his arm tighten at the old man's interruption, a clear warning it was time to keep quiet. "From your forthright manner and the way you hold yourself, boy, I can understand why you have my Chamberlain fooled, but you will find me less easy to convince. To begin with, I already know that one of our housemaids told you your name when you arrived, besides, what would you say if I told you there was someone here who knew John Sheppard?"

A smile pulled at the edges of his mouth at the thought of meeting one of the people in his visions. "That would be great…who is it?"

"Ballam, would you come forward please?" The Lord Protector's smile turned cynical, and out the corner of his eye, John could see Hamlane looked confused, as from the shadows a blonde-haired man stepped forward.

John didn't recognise him, however, his ornate robes marked him as family, so he guessed this was the man who had found him in the desert.

"It isn't him uncle. This man is not John Sheppard from Atlantis."

"NO! You're lying…why would you do that?" John heard the panicked edge to his voice, but couldn't help it - he couldn't believe this was happening. Then gasped, as much from the mental gut punch he'd just received, as the sharp sting of needles biting into his skin. The all too familiar drowsy feeling making itself felt, as he quickly collapsed, only Hamlane's strong grip preventing him from sliding to the floor.

"Hamlane, I have heard enough of this slave's lies…gag him."

"Wait…"John slurred, pleading more with Hamlane than the Lord Protector as a thick wad of cotton appeared in front of his face. "If I'm not John Sheppard, then why was I wearing his clothing and the chain bearing his name?" As Hamlane paused, John was pleased to see the old man's eyes narrow as he gave his nephew a suspicious look.

"I wondered about that myself," Ballam responded, unfazed by John's accusation. "Initially I thought this slave must have stolen them, but in light of Colonel Sheppard's disappearance, I'm now convinced he must have murdered him, and disposed of the body."

John countered quickly before Hamlane had the chance to silence him. "Not so fast, pal, you can't have it both ways. If you knew the chain around my neck belonged to Sheppard, then why did you automatically assume I was a slave?"

"How dare you accuse my nephew - I've heard enough," The Lord Protector interrupted and glared at him. "You were found bearing the marks of punishment which is good enough for me. You are a slave, John, if that is your name, and I will not tolerate your lies any longer." With the old man's harsh words, he felt sick, knowing his fate was sealed.

Bewildered, he glanced sideways and saw Ballam trying to suppress a smile. It was a cruel, malicious imposter of a smile, more of a sneer, and John was puzzled as to why this man was telling such lies. Hamlane's expression now also hardened, as he shoved the thick wad of cotton forcibly into his mouth, then pushed him onto his knees. All of his worst fears suddenly realised as now, not only was he destined to spend the rest of his life enslaved, but also branded a murderer.

Unable to speak, or even move now the drugs were taking complete control over his body, John could only kneel there, held down by Hamlane's firm grasp while the Lord Protector made his pronouncement. "Interrogate him, and find out what he knows, as it would be good if we could give our new allies some information on their missing commander. Then punish him…thirty lashes, and make sure he feels every one...Now get him out of my sight."

"As you wish," Hamlane answered, his face now scarlet, but just as John was roughly dragged to his feet, he stopped. "What would you have me do with him after that, Master?"

Already screwed, John didn't think things could get much worse…but as usual, he was wrong. "Leave him to die, or sell him…whatever you wish, Chamberlain. I'll leave that up to you…"

ooooOoooo

He was afraid, but tried to stand tall as Hamlane dragged him to his feet and tied his chains to a high, wooden beam. The Chamberlain's anger, palpable, his rage clearly visible even in the gloom. John knew the wrath he was to face wouldn't be pretty, as he watched him pull on a pair of tight, black leather gloves and ease them into each crevice of his large hands.

Blood from his wrists was already starting to trickle down his arms, the warmth it brought tempered by pain, so did nothing to alleviate the shivers wracking his body or the chill in his heart. The man he trusted had failed him, but worse still, his friend was now his enemy, as it was clear from Hamlane's twisted expression he was relishing getting revenge for his perceived betrayal, and John knew the ache in his heart was nothing compared to what lay ahead.

Tears pricked his eyes…he already hurt so much, his shoulders aching under the strain, but his arm worst of all. Hamlane had dragged him by the limb all through the castle, his rough treatment bringing it to new levels of agony, so painful he'd cried out, but his cries were stifled, as he choked instead on the dry cotton gagging his mouth. For a moment he panicked when he couldn't catch a breath, then a wave of calm engulfed him, born of anger, pride and injustice. What they were doing was wrong…the man, Ballam, had lied, yet why? He didn't know, but John knew he must stay strong if he was to survive.

ooooOoooo

Hamlane surveyed the battered body of the man hanging from the beam, and knew his mother would have been ashamed of his handiwork.

On the day he'd been appointed Chamberlain over twenty years ago, although she'd been happy at his elevation in authority, she had also expressed some misgivings about the role he was about to fill. "_Never forget despite your fine title you are still a slave, my son, and be prepared to lose your friends the first time you need to discipline one of your own. That being said, I am proud of what you've achieved and believe you will be a fair Chamberlain, and if not held in affection, at least respected by our people. Just remember one thing…never wield your hand in anger." _

They were wise words, which he'd carried with him, even after her death. His temper, while often bubbling under the surface, never allowed to consume him…until now. Normally a cynical man, he'd allowed this slave to get under his skin, convincing him not only of his amnesia, but also his claim to be free, even to the point he'd cast all reservations aside to do something he'd never done for anyone before …arrange an audience with his Master.

He was so incensed at the slave's deception, calling both his judgement and reputation into disrepute, he'd dragged his worthless carcass along the corridors, deliberately pulling on his injured arm, ignoring the man's obvious pain. Back in the dungeon, he'd strung him from the highest beam until his feet barely touched the ground, and watched satisfied, as blood trickled in rivulets from the shallow cuts torn into his flesh from the sharp metal bands. Then, just as he had been embarrassed, so he humiliated this man, gloating at the flush of colour flooding his cheeks, as he sliced off his clothes, stripping him naked, then tying on a loincloth to prepare him for burial if he didn't survive the ordeal.

The interrogation he subjected him to was both brutal and protracted, using every means at his disposal to coerce a confession out of the man who had disgraced him in front of his master. Yet, while John groaned as his fist drove into his gut again and again, even screaming as the red hot poker seared his skin, the man said nothing. His eyes, now glazed with pain, remained the way they were before he started…dark, empty. John's once pallid face now bruised and covered in deep, weeping cuts, completely devoid of any expression.

As he hung limp, his head bowed, Hamlane knew that while the man may have succumbed to his injuries, he was far from broken. It was still light when he'd started and now the rosy hue of dawn was streaming through the windows, but he was done, finished, and Hamlane couldn't help but wonder if he'd been wrong to go against his original instincts and disbelieve this slave, therefore committing the biggest injustice of his career.

Ballam's story was still niggling him, as despite the conviction of the young master's words, he was loath to believe anything he said. Since he'd arrived, he'd become a disruptive influence, a lazy man, with a cruel streak who Hamlane knew was already draining his master dry with his gambling habit and love of fine things.

Yet, he was the heir, and although Hamlane was aware of the Lord Protector's concerns, in this instance the Master clearly believed his young ward, so regardless of what he thought, he must carry out his wishes…like them or not.

On instinct, he turned to give John one last look before he walked away. His torso was covered in deep, livid bruises. Raw, angry burns littered his sides and chest, and welts from the master's cane lined his thighs, and back with deep bloody cuts…but he was alive, and still to endure thirty lashes of the whip.

ooooOoooo

Silence descended upon the small dejected group as they left the conference room, and even Rodney couldn't find a single thing to say. Woolsey had regretfully informed them that, as every viable address had been searched, every possible contact utilised, and each last slim lead now completed exhausted - it was over. Lt Colonel John Sheppard was now officially declared MIA.

With unspoken consent, Rodney strolled slowly with his team-mates, his friends, along to Sheppard's quarters. Their usual table in the mess hall too social for their mood, plus no one was hungry despite Carson's pleas for them to eat. Away from prying eyes, they stumbled into the deserted room hoping something other than memories would jolt some idea, a new brilliant plan to present to Woolsey, which could help them extend their search.

Unfortunately, though, John's aura was sadly missing, and the solitary man staring from the wall seemed to set the tone, as they all sat slumped, staring aimlessly into space. Memories of laughter shared over beer and pizza making his eyes moist, as everything was the same as it had always been, almost as if the man himself would walk in at any minute…but he was missing, nowhere to be found, and none of them could take it in.

Rodney jumped to his feet as the buzzer went, and both Ronon and Teyla looked up surprised as Carson stood at the door.

"When you weren't in the mess hall, I thought I might find you here," Beckett said, his tone accusatory, knowing they'd disregarded his instructions. But the agitation in his voice hinted at something else.

"What is, Carson?" Rodney lifted his chin to look him in the eye, "We're trying to think here, at least I am. Ronon and Teyla are just keeping me company."

As Ronon narrowed his eyes, and Teyla looked hurt, Rodney felt bad, as he hadn't meant to offend his friends. Uncomfortably aware, that when he failed to solve a problem, as in this case, his old obnoxious arrogance sometimes made a reappearance. "Sorry…ignore me. I'm just mad at myself," he ranted. "I'm the foremost expert on wormhole physics, and can write a program to take down the replicators, but I can't even find my own friend – some freaking genius I am."

Teyla came over and put her arm round his shoulder to give him a hug. "You've done everything you can, Rodney. None of this is your fault."

"Ahem." Rodney heard Beckett pretend to clear his throat, and saw him standing there with his arms crossed, looking irritated. "Well, as much as I hate to interrupt this brain storming session, I think I might know who is holding John…"

ooooOoooo

TBC

**Why does Ballam hate John so much? And will the team get there in time? Tomorrow's installment will give you the answers. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please review.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks again for the reviews - they really do mean a lot. **

**Now on with the story...**

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 12

Ballam eased the tunic carefully over his aching back, wincing as the fine cotton material scrapped against his wounds. Even after all this time they still felt tender, but the mornings were the worst, as he struggled painfully out of bed after lying on the deep welts all night.

His uncle would pay for what he'd done, and was already suffering for the brutal caning he gave him, the first signs of his revenge already apparent in his pallid features, and the slight stoop that had replaced the old man's once proud gait. It cost a lot to purchase a poison so sophisticated that within hours of death all traces of toxin would be undetectable. The only drawback being, Garmend's ultimate demise was already proving too slow for his liking, but the seller had assured him his patience would be rewarded, as the victim would appear to die of simple old age, and no one would ever suspect it was him.

He would pretend to mourn, of course, but not for long. Then he would put his carefully laid plans into action, and sell off his _inheritance_ to the Murland's, their nearest neighbour, before waving goodbye to this tiresome place, and seeking out the best Pegasus had to offer…away from Etraska and his tedious life.

Sheppard, though, was another matter, as revenge was only a hollow victory if the person you defeated didn't know who was responsible for their downfall. Therefore, leaving his chambers behind, Ballam made his way along the passageways, still shrouded in shadows even with the sporadic glimpses of the bright midday sun streaming through the tiny windows.

He wondered how long ago the pointless interrogation had concluded, the crack of the whip already clearly heard, despite the dungeons being still some distance away. It amused him greatly to imagine Sheppard being beaten to reveal information about his own whereabouts, the perfect revenge, after all the humiliation and hardship he suffered during the peasants uprising in the tower.

What Sheppard must now be feeling…apart from pain, Ballam neither knew nor cared. He deserved every blow coming to him, because it was through the Atlantians' interference, his privileged life had been torn apart.

When the gene therapy had made them all equal, he'd been forced to work alongside the heathens for the very food on his plate, and his eventual escape from poverty only came through the offer of a dreary life, from a boring old man.

Sheppard was now finally paying for his demise, and the taste of victory was sweet, especially as his suffering was not just confined to blood and tears, but also devastation of the worst possible kind…despair. He was alone here, friendless and being brutally punished by the one man who once believed him. To the Atlantian, it must seem like all hope was lost, and he didn't even know why such bad tidings had befallen him…but that was soon to change.

ooooOoooo

"Where's the Chamberlain?" Once Ballam's eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior of the dungeon, he was disappointed to find the young assistant, Durand, wielding the whip instead of Hamlane.

Mid-strike, Durand didn't look away from the job in hand, as the long, thick, heavy whip tore a grunt from Sheppard's throat as the weapon ripped yet another two more deep, jagged tears into his tender flesh.

"Fifteen…" he called out, and Sheppard groaned, a low, guttural noise filled with pain, while his fingers flexed around the chains and his back buckled, his muscles quivering at the assault. Ballam was curious about the count, and wondered if it was for his benefit, or the slave's.

Then he watched as the boy slowly lowered the whip and turned toward him. His face was covered in Sheppard's blood, splatters of scarlet running down his cheeks and arms, his once black leather gloves now red, as were the two long strands, of knotted leather straps. "He has retired to his chambers, Master, probably asleep after interrogating the slave all night."

Ballam nodded, taking in the shivering frame of the man strung up on the beam. His back already ravaged by the whip, tacky and raw…his flesh in tatters, ripped apart in deep, ragged lines.

"Enjoying your work, boy?" Ballam asked, but was disappointed to see only confusion on the young slave's face.

Durand shrugged, his face impassive, as he looked from him to the whip in his hand. "No…but it's my job, Master."

Puzzled, Ballam went against his better instinct of engaging in conversation with a mere slave, and continued. "I thought you would have welcomed the opportunity to thrash the man who ruined your chance of happiness," he pointed out, but when the young man's expression grew even more confused, Ballam became frustrated. "Come now, boy, isn't it true you were rejected by your intended, because she harbours feelings for this man?" When Durand still remained silent, Ballam pressed this issue. "Speak freely, Durand - I won't punish you for speaking your mind."

The look Durand gave him was indifferent, as he shuffled his feet. "Yes, Master, it is true that Streya did not wish to join with me, but I am not really bothered, as while she seems a nice girl, I have no feelings for her…she was the Masters choice, not mine." he answered, appearing uncomfortable with revealing his thoughts.

"Well then." A slow smile grew on Ballam's face as he unconsciously patted him on the back, only to remove his hand in disgust, when it came away covered in sweat and blood. "I'll tell you what, boy. If you do a good job here, I'll make sure you get your choice of partner."

Ballam thought he saw a flash of anger in the blue eyes, but it was quickly replaced by grief as the young man answered him. "Thank you, Master, but the only girl I cared for is dead…"

For a moment he was baffled, and tried to think which one of the young female slaves that could be until he realised. "The one found with the stable boy?" he responded, amazed. "But weren't you the one who whipped her?"

Durand slumped, as his expression became bereft. "The Chamberlain gave me an order," he answered, and Ballam squirmed, as he watched the slave's eye's become moist, "and to be honest, Master, up until then she was just Streya's friend, I wasn't aware of my feelings until after, when she was dead."

"So you killed the one you loved?" Ballam asked, his voice low, almost stunned by the revelation.

The young slave paused for a moment, apparently considering his response, then when he lifted his gaze, the glare he gave him was angry, and his tone bitter. "No, Master…I only wielded the whip, it wasn't me who ordered the punishment."

Immediately regretting his offer, Ballam wanted to grab the whip off the impudent slave, and reward him for his candour, but satisfied himself with the knowledge that could come later, as he currently had another way to relieve his aggression.

His nemesis was moaning softly, his muscles quivering and his head bowed, but when Ballam approached, he defiantly lifted his head to make eye contact. "I see you bear pain well, John," he said, grudgingly admiring the man, who after all of his suffering was still unbroken.

Sheppard was a mess, one eye, now swollen shut, his other covered in dried blood from a cut over his brow, and his torso a mass of livid bruises, weeping burns and deep welts that he recognised only too well. Yet despite the stuttering breaths, his weak voice was still insolent. "Come to watch me die, you lying SOB…well, knock yourself out, 'cause I'd rather go to hell a free man, than bend my freaking knee to you," Sheppard coughed, grunting in response.

Ballam heard a snort behind him, and glared at the quickly suppressed smile from the young slave. "If you must know, it gives me no pleasure to watch you, or any other slave being punished, Sheppard. As a matter of fact, I find violence distasteful. However If that's what you want, John, it can easily be arranged."

"So, you admit I am John Sheppard?" John slurred, then coughed again, spluttering droplets of blood all over his clean white tunic.

Ballam glanced at his clothing in disgust, then took off his gold embroidered top coat, and proceeded to roll up his sleeves. He then bent in close and whispered into his ear. "Yes, you are John Sheppard, I even recognised you hanging upside down on that frame. I enjoyed seeing you whipped, and having you branded as a common slave, but not as much as I'm going to enjoy this." Ballam smiled, as he felt him flinch at the warmth of his breath. "Just think, Sheppard, no one but you or I will ever know, a secret we'll both take to the grave, although your demise will most certainly come before mine."

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Sheppard draw him a look of pure loathing, as he stepped back and turned to the boy. "Durand, give me the whip." he ordered.

"Why? You owe me that much," Sheppard's weak voice asked, and his glazed eyes were filled with confusion.

Ballam grimaced, as he took the whip in his hand and shook off the remnants of flesh caught in the knotted strands, while trying to avoid treading on the sticky puddle of blood pooling on the ground. "I owe you nothing, Sheppard, which is what you left me after destroying my life."

His smile grew when he saw Sheppard's bewilderment increase. "Still don't remember, Sheppard? Shame…never mind, the details aren't necessary. All you need to know is it was me who was responsible for bringing you to your knees. Now, as much as I dislike violence, I am not incapable of dispensing it, and in your case it will be an absolute pleasure."

"Bastard…" Hatred in his eyes, John spat in his face, but he simply wiped it away while nodding to Durand to withdraw and allow him to begin.

It had been a long time since he'd held the whip in his hand, the one useful skill he'd learnt while working on that dreadful ranch, but Ballam was happy to see he'd lost none of his touch.

As each lash struck home, the familiar sound of hard, leather striking human flesh was music to his ears, as Sheppard groaned in agony, his abused muscles jerking, no longer able to withstand the abuse thrust upon them. Ballam's arm quivered with each blow, but he kept his grip firm, admiring the deep, ragged lines caused by his handiwork, as Sheppard's once white loin cloth turned even redder as it became saturated with blood. Exhilarated, Ballam admitted to himself that he had lied, he did enjoy inflicting pain, especially on the man who had ruined his life.

Despite his quarry jerking away, Ballam was determined that nothing was going to lessen the punishment as he struck his target time and time again, each vicious strike more powerful than the last. Yet after twenty agonizing strokes of his sentence, Sheppard still hadn't screamed…and that just wouldn't do.

"Durand, this whip is obviously not doing its job well enough." He gave the young slave a sideways glance. "Bring me the new whip I ordered. Now's as good a time as any to try it out, don't you think?"

Ballam ignored Durand's look of disgust as he took the magnificent braided whip in his hand and carefully examined the seven thick, knotted straps attached at the end. It was an unusually cruel implement, with numerous flat metal studs embedded in the leather, with a metal tip at end of each strap. His satisfaction complete, when he showed it to his intended victim, and saw a flash of fear replace anger in the eyes of the man hanging loose against the chains.

As the powerful whip cracked, then ripped seven bloody lines deep into the tacky, raw flesh, John's anguished scream rent the air. It was feral, and filled the vast empty space with the sound of terror. Ballam grinned with satisfaction at the nauseating cries being torn from the strong, wilful man in front of him, but it wasn't enough…not yet.

On and on he continued, his own scars pulling as the heavy whip made his back ache. A price worth paying as Sheppard jerked and screamed until he was hoarse, his ravaged back bucking away, yet unable to escape the torture being inflicted upon him, as his blood flowed freely onto the hard stone floor.

A moment of hesitation made him stop before the last strike as Sheppard went limp, only the chains cutting deep welts into his wrists keeping him upright. Ballam waited, not wanting to waste a single strike, then a twitch of the dark, spiky hair was all he needed to proceed with one last blow. A final, blood-curdling yell was wrenched from Sheppard's throat, letting him know the job was now done…revenge was his.

ooooOoooo

"Put the whip down…NOW!" Ronon heard Sheppard's screams reverberate all through the castle and wanted to kill the bastard on sight, but Teyla held him back, her expression though angry, more concerned that Sheppard would take fire instead. Though when he saw John's shredded back, Ronon wished he'd blown his head off…he rarely missed.

"John!" Before either of them could stop her, Streya, the housemaid who had led them there, streaked forward. Though just as she reached the wounded man, Ballam seized his chance and grabbed her, choking her, by holding his arm tight against the young girl's slim neck.

"Let them go, Ballam." Ronon felt his body tense, as he heard a gruff voice behind him, then saw a new player enter the room. He was a large man, almost as tall as him, with long red hair that fell in a ponytail down his back.

"Welcome to the party, Hamlane," Ballam said, his derisive voice sounding slightly breathless as he nodded towards them. "Runen is it? And of course, the lovely Miss Emmagan. Let me introduce you to our Chamberlain."

Ronon watched as Ballam edged slowly backwards, dragging the girl with him until he got behind John, using his ravaged back as a shield. When he did answer, deliberately choosing to ignore the new guy.

"So, my little game is up, I suppose? Ballam asked, but it didn't seem to Ronon as if he was bothered about it, as a smug smile grew on his face. "How did you know Sheppard was here?"

Teyla was the one to answer, her controlled voice dripping with anger. "You used the same poison on your uncle, which killed the Lord Protector in the Tower," she said, then seemed to take a calming breath before continuing. "But what you obviously did not know was after your uncle complained of feeling unwell, our doctor did some tests, including taking a sample of his blood. As it was Doctor Beckett who also treated the Lord Protector in the Tower, he recognised the toxin at once, therefore it was only a small leap to make the connection to you." Teyla then gave him a grim smile. "Although, we may never have found Colonel Sheppard if not for your uncle telling us about the imposter you found in the desert…"

"Bloody hell…" Carson came running in, alongside Rodney. McKay, white as a sheet, starting to gag at the sight of all the blood, while Beckett muttered what Ronon reckoned could only be a string of expletives under his breath. "I need to get to him, people…now. By the state of his back and the amount of blood on the floor alone he needs urgent treatment, never mind what other injuries he could be carrying."

"How Sheppard would have loved this," Ballam chuckled "You do know he's lost his memory, of course? Though it was starting to come back. It was really very amusing watching the poor deluded fool trying to convince my uncle he was a free man, all because of a few fleeting images in his dreams. Of course, who was the old man going to believe? A pathetic slave with a sob story, or the heir to the throne?" He laughed in a humourless tone, with eyes as hard as ice. "John would have been so touched to see you all here, desperate to help him…too late, of course." Ronon felt Teyla's arm holding him back. He didn't want to hurt her by pushing her away, but he was desperate to rip the sadistic SOB apart.

"It's never too late to do the right thing, Ballam," Hamlane said, as he strolled slowly towards him, Ronon pleased the guy was on their side, as he could have taken him - but not by much.

"You always were my uncle's favourite, weren't you?" Ballam sneered, hatred etched into every line of his face. "Why he didn't make you heir I'll never know."

Hamlane gave a wry smile, but didn't stop moving as he talked. "Well, he is my father." The room went silent at the revelation, and Ronon noticed Ballam's expression, once cocky, took on the look of a man in complete and utter shock. "Unfortunately though, my beloved mother was a slave, so I've always know I could never succeed, or risk tainting the family blood line. Therefore it's possible the Lord Protector may still forgive you, Ballam, but only if you end this wicked vendetta now."

"Not likely though is it?" Ballam said, then nodded towards Sheppard. "Anyway, it's already over…look at him, he's as good as dead, or soon will be. As for me, it's time I was going, but I think I'll take this young one with me." He retorted, as Ronon watched him drag the girl towards a door at the back of the dungeon. "She won't be worth as much as you of course, Miss Emmagan, but a pretty little thing like this is always in demand at the market."

While both men carried on their tense exchange, Streya's eyes were pleading, terrified as her lids started to flutter, and her body went limp in his arms. Ronon sharing an anxious look with Teyla, knowing if they didn't make a move soon, it would be more than his friend who wouldn't make it.

Then, out the corner of his eye, Ronon saw Sheppard's head twitch, then his leg kick Ballam's arm, knocking him off balance, forcing him to release Streya. Next, he heard the crack of the whip as Durand wrapped it around Ballam's neck, leaving him lying squirming, struggling for breath.

"Quickly…get him down!" Beckett cried out, and Ronon, along with Rodney, rushed forward to support John's frame, while Hamlane released him from his chains.

Finally free, Carson wasted no time in checking his vitals. "There's no response…and I can't get a heartbeat. Get me the defibrillator."

The room was silent except for the loud bang, and the charge of electricity as the paddles jumped against the bruised chest. "Nothing, again…"

Ronon couldn't stand this. He wanted to do something, anything, but all he could do was watch as Beckett fought for his friend's life, knowing the doc was the best there was…but would it be enough?

Three times his heart jolted along with Sheppard's, until he saw Beckett sit back on his heels and scrub a shaky hand through his hair. "He's back…but I don't know for how long. Radio Lorne and tell him to bring the jumper over as close as possible."

"My nephew has a craft if it's any use to you - he won't be requiring it anymore. Besides it's the least I can do for all the trouble he's caused." The Lord Protector offered, having appeared as if out of nowhere, his presence unnoticed during everything that had gone down. His disgust was clearly visible, though, as Ronon noticed, he didn't make any effort to help the gasping man, just glaring at his nephew's struggle to breathe.

Ronon wanted to wring the old guy's scrawny neck, knowing it was him who was responsible for ordering Sheppard's punishment. He resisted the urge, though, as he knew revenge wouldn't do his buddy any good, besides, according to the doc, the guy was already dying.

"Show me where it is," Rodney said, spurred into action, appearing happy to be able to find something he could do to help. Minutes later, he returned loaded with a stretcher and blankets, wearing a broad smile on his face. "You're not going to believe this…it's a jumper! Ballam must have stolen it before he left the Tower."

"Good, lad." Carson beamed, but his expression soon grew serious as he started barking orders. "Teyla, get the emergency blanket and lay it onto the stretcher. Ronon, son, I want you to give me a hand easing the colonel on. One, two…that's it…just watch his IV…good. Now give me those blankets." He saw Beckett grimace with disgust at the blood soaked loin cloth, as he grabbed them off Rodney and started layering them carefully around Sheppard's body, tucking one gently around his neck. "The colonel wouldn't want people seeing him like this, plus he needs to be kept as warm as possible. "Carson said, almost as if he was speaking to himself, before turning to McKay. "I'm sorry about your back, Rodney, but I need you to take the other end of the stretcher. Though by the looks of things I don't think he'll be too heavy, as he's practically skin and bones, but in any case, I need to be hands free in case he crashes again." With one last anxious glance at each one of the team, Carson nodded. "Right, let's go…"

With barely a backwards glance, Ronon began to walk out the dungeon carrying his precious cargo. He made his way slowly along the stone floor, his pace partly for Rodney's benefit, but mainly to make John's journey as gentle as possible. He didn't much care for the people left behind, as in his book, the Lord Protector and his nephew pretty much deserved each other. Slavery disgusted him at any time, but especially these two men who treated people as if they were cattle, and used brutality to retain their power over those under their control.

Although he did feel sorry for the young kid, Streya. Still, the last he'd seen of her, that young dude who took out Ballam was holding her pretty close, so maybe she'd be okay. That other guy though - Hamlane, he was something else. Ronon couldn't figure what his role was in all this, but reckoned he would be a major player in whatever the hell happened next. Right now, though, if he was honest, he didn't give a shit. They'd finally got Sheppard and were taking him home…which at the end of the day was all that really mattered.

ooooOoooo

TBC

**Well help has arrived at last...**

** Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and the whump. Please review, as I like to know what you think.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks again for all the reviews, and I'm delighted you enjoyed the whump! Now its onto the recovery - How is John?**

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 13

It was raining, but Carson didn't mind a bit of the wet stuff. He was a Scot and knew that a wee drop of water didn't hurt anyone. Besides, the cold shower chilling his skin revitalised him, and helped relieve the stiffness he felt after having spent so many hours in surgery.

Carson stretched out his aching back and gingerly twisted his head from side to side, trying to work out the kinks. He longed to retreat into the relative sanctuary of his quarters where a dram of single malt would have gone down a treat, except he couldn't imbibe, in case the colonel needed him. So instead, he contented himself with the strong coffee cooling in his mug, and the fresh Atlantis breeze chasing away the cobwebs from his brain.

It was a dreach day, reminiscent of the typical wet summers at home, and Carson felt it getting colder by the minute. He pulled up his collar and rubbed his arms, trying to get some warmth, but his skin still felt numb, a feeling he wished could pervade deep into his senses, but the cold could only reach so far. The rawness he felt, caused by rage, disgust, nausea, all jostling for precedence in his jumbled emotions, was so acute because he couldn't comprehend the evil in a man's mind that would make someone inflict the injuries caused to his friend.

Carson was neither a violent nor a lazy man, and couldn't understand why someone had persecuted John just because they had been forced to work for a living. His mother had brought up all four of her children to pay their way, and often used to say, "_Monies round to go round."_ Her meaning clear…share what you have not just with family or friends, but also with those who weren't as fortunate. She was a good woman his mum, the best, still living, but lost to him since the son she knew had died years ago in an explosion. He missed her sorely, especially her warm smile when he'd come home at the end of the day, and a comforting hug after a hellish one…like today.

John had coded on the table, right in the middle of debriding his back, and Carson could still visualise the blood dripping onto the floor as they turned him to begin resuscitations. He'd brought him back again, just like the time on the jumper after the Iratus bug attack, then again after John had volunteered to test that bloody drug. It was becoming a regular occurrence, bringing Sheppard back from the dead, too regular in fact, and Carson was starting to wonder just how many lives the colonel actually had.

Still, John was alive - just, but critical at best, something he would need to tell his team as soon as he finished his coffee. Though in no rush, as Carson was reluctant to tell them what he was struggling to come to terms with himself - the horrific knowledge that apart from being brutally whipped, Lt Colonel John Sheppard had also been tortured.

ooooOoooo

Richard waited until all the usual suspects were gathered around the table, and despite the presence of Ronon, Teyla, Rodney and Lorne, he noticed that the typical lively banter present before any meeting was absent, as the conference room remained unusually quiet. There wasn't even a snark from Dr McKay as he sat silently staring into his laptop, although the absence of clacking keys made it obvious, at least to him, no actual work was getting done. It was clear Rodney was just using the screen to hide behind, but the prop didn't work, as it was plain to see from the worry etched into his strained expression, the scientist was upset by the condition of his friend.

Privately, he'd always thought of Sheppard's team as being a bit of an odd bunch. There was Ronon, who had impressed him with his courage during Michael's invasion, but was in Richard's opinion rather taciturn, and his _reports_, or lack thereof, had caused him numerous headaches since he'd arrived. Beside him sat Teyla, the lady of the group, who in his view appeared to be den mother to all three men, but behind her serene exterior hid the soul of a warrior…and then there was McKay. Richard had a great deal of professional respect for the brilliant scientist, but personally, he considered him a rather condescending and irritating man. It was a curiosity to him why Sheppard had not only chosen the whinging scientist to be part of his crew, but also seemed to genuinely like him. Still, as Richard would freely admit, despite their diverse make-up, or maybe even because of it, they were the best on base. It was clear that their loyalty to the man himself was unwavering, as they supported him through thick and thin, yet, as he'd seen for himself on several occasions, they weren't averse to challenging his opinions either, if not his ultimate authority. When he'd asked Sheppard about it once, John had told him that he valued their honesty, plus he couldn't stand those who brown nosed, never having been one to blindly obey without question himself.

Out the corner of his eye, he watched as Beckett arrived and took his place at the table. The Scot looked apprehensive, and his exhaustion was evident in the slouch of his shoulders, and the deep lines etched into his face. His expression was worryingly grim.

"Good morning, everyone." Richard's gaze took in everyone round the table, including Beckett, who was preparing to speak. "There are a few items on the agenda this morning, however, I am sure you will all want to receive an update on Colonel Sheppard's condition first. Doctor Beckett…"

Carson made as if to stand, then appeared to think better of it, and satisfied himself with leaning back against the chair instead. "Thank you, Mr Woolsey. Now as all of you are aware, Dr Keller and I spent the best part of last night with the colonel in surgery, and while he isn't out of the woods yet, I am pleased to report he has remained stable overnight. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial, but if he comes though that, we hope to begin skin grafts in the next few days."

"Does he really have to go through that…weren't you able to patch him up?" Rodney's voice sounded sharper than usual as he peered over his laptop cringing, a tone Richard recognised as a sign the good doctor was upset.

Beckett slowly shook his head, and sighed, "I'm afraid not, Rodney…there was nothing left to patch, as any skin that was left on his back, was so badly damaged it had to be removed," he replied. "One small mercy is with artificial skin now available, we can use allografts to begin with while we culture the colonel's own skin in the lab. Though you should be aware that during this process visitation will be strictly limited."

At the sound of muttering from the team, Richard intervened. "Carry on, Doctor."

Beckett leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. "Look, people, I know you all want to be with him, but to decrease the chance of infection, Colonel Sheppard will have to remain in isolation, so infection protocols have been put in place. In other words, there will only be one visitor allowed at any time, and masks, gloves and gowns must be donned before entering the unit," Beckett explained, and Richard watched as Carson's hand shook slightly as he reached for a glass of water, then took a long draught. "However, apart from his back, there is another serious concern I need to inform you about. His other injuries - cracked ribs, deep bruising over most of his body, welts over his torso and legs plus burns - are all indicative of one thing…he was tortured. From what I can tell, the abuse was systematic and unrelenting over a prolonged period, although for the life of me…I can't begin to understand why."

Richard thought that Beckett seemed to mumble that last part to himself, before the doctor looked up mildly surprised to see the others watching him, then appeared to give himself a metal shake before he continued. "I'm sorry…what I meant by that remark is by all the accounts we've received from Etraska, it would appear that when he arrived there Colonel Sheppard had lost his memory, and apparently, he'd only just started getting bits and pieces of it back before we found him. Therefore, on that basis, I don't see how he could have given them any information about Atlantis," Carson said. "Of course, none of this can be confirmed until the colonel regains consciousness, but honestly, Mr Woolsey, under those circumstances, I really don't believe there is a security risk."

"Is there any evidence of permanent brain damage, Doctor Beckett?" Teyla asked, her voice cracking slightly.

"No, lass, that was one of the first things I checked for, although it is a well know fact that head injuries, even minor ones, combined with extreme stress can cause memory loss. So, given the fact we know he had already sustained a concussion the day before he went to Pallonia, I'm of the opinion that the colonel has been without his memory since he underwent that bloody test of courage…sorry, Mr Woolsey, I apologise for the language." Carson's face flushed beet red, as he looked over apologetically.

"Don't worry about it, Doctor," Richard answered with a smile, hoping he reassured the man, as although he wasn't allowed to express it himself, he privately agreed with Carson's sentiments.

"So what's the prognosis, Carson? Is Sheppard ever going to be _Sheppard_ again?" Rodney piped up, clearly anxious.

Beckett put his palms in the air and shrugged. "I don't know, Rodney. Medical science can only do so much, and right now, the colonel is getting the best possible care, but as for the future there are too many variables to be sure. Once we assess his cognitive abilities and the resultant mental trauma caused by his treatment there, then we'll know better what we're up against." Beckett went silent for a moment, then lifted his eyes to meet everyone around the room. "What I do know is, if John gets through the next few days, he's going to need each and every one of you to support him in the weeks and even months ahead. A side effect of head trauma, especially one resulting in amnesia would most likely have left him severely depressed, so I can only imagine how low the poor bugger must have felt, as he had been both mentally and physically oppressed by his situation. At this stage, it's hard to tell whether he'll be able to completely recover from his ordeal. Let's just say I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't some change in the man, but we'll just have to wait and see."

"Just one more thing, Doc." A question came from Lorne this time. "Why couldn't we locate him with his transponder?"

Beckett snapped shut his laptop and looked up. "There was a crude incision over a large burn on his arm around the area where it should have been," he answered. "If you want my best guess, I would say it had probably been melted by the heat when he was branded, and then caused a subsequent infection that necessitated its removal at a later stage." Carson's face grew angry. "Although the bloody butcher who carved him open caused extensive muscle damage, which is something else I'll have to address at a later date."

Rodney's eyes flew open and he dropped his laptop onto the floor. "They branded him? He was already wearing chains, wasn't that enough?"

"You'd think so, son, wouldn't you…" Beckett said, his voice trailing away.

For a few minutes no one spoke, so Richard waited until the harassed medic left the room and McKay retrieved his computer, before turning to the next item of the agenda. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he was also aware as commander of the base it was his job to get everyone back to business after the doctor's disturbing revelations. "Major Lorne," he turned to Sheppard's XO. "Would you brief us on the current situation on PX4 192 please?"

ooooOoooo

Little by little, John became aware of a weird thrum electrifying his senses, but it wasn't painful like static, and felt oddly reassuring. It almost seemed as if in a strange way it was welcoming him, almost as if the sensation was a living, breathing thing.

John wondered if this could be heaven, then realised he was just being dumb. For one thing, he reckoned he hadn't earned the admission fee, and for another, he was in pain, though not the searing, gut wrenching agony of before. This time, while he still felt raw, the ache was somehow more muted than before and there was a fuzzy feeling that he recognised as the presence of good drugs coursing though his veins…could he be home?

He felt himself shaking, and his cheeks wet, but was frightened to open his eyes, scared to look, in case he was wrong and awoke once more to see the gloomy, stone walls of the place without a heart. In the distance, he heard the soft beep that had been lurking in the background suddenly get louder, turning into a blaring insistent scream that filled him with terror…

"Colonel Sheppard…John. It's Doctor Beckett…Carson. Try to take it easy, son, everything is going to be alright now. You're home." John's eyes flew open to be immediately blinded by dazzling lights glaring from a blue ceiling. He didn't know where he was, but he remembered the voice, and when the world came into focus he recognised the wrinkled blue eyes from his visions. He knew this man, and there was something familiar about this place – he could feel it in his bones, but best of all…John knew he was finally free.

He started to cry and couldn't stop, his relief so overwhelming it was almost his undoing, as fierce sobs wracked his body sending him into agonising convulsions, making his body scream as fiery pain rippled across his back. "Arggh…" John struggled to breathe as wave upon wave of excruciating pain seared through him, until he felt the ice cold sensation of morphine seeping though his veins as it gradually doused the flames, and numbed the agony until it became a faint icy hot tingle.

"Better?" the familiar voice asked though a fog, and if he wasn't so darned beat, John would have told him it was.

Sleep was pulling him under, but John felt afraid, frightened that perhaps he was wrong and maybe _this_ was only a dream, and he would awake once more to find himself still chained to the high beam. He couldn't go back there, wouldn't return to the hellish life he'd just left, so he started to fight, resisting the drugs and his desperate need for rest. Then, through his panic, he heard the one called Carson speak again. "Go to sleep, John, and rest easy. Don't worry, no one's going to hurt you here, and I'll be right by your side when you wake up."

"I'm…ho…me?" he asked, hoping he was right, but still unable to believe it could be true.

"Yes, you're home. Now you must be thirsty, so have a wee drop of water before you head for the land of nod." John felt the straw enter his mouth, but was too bushed to do more than take a sip of the fresh, cold liquid as it eased the fire in his aching throat.

"Thanx…Car…sun."

John could feel the darkness close in and his eyelids grow heavy, so he reckoned it must be his imagination when he heard a crack in the doctor's voice. "No thanks are necessary, Colonel, I'm just glad to have you back…"

ooooOoooo

TBC

**Well John is back home, but the story isn't quite finished yet - the last chapter is up tomorrow. Hope you enjoyed this one though, and please review. **

**BTW, in case any of you were wondering, 'Dreach' is a Scots word for a cold, damp, miserable day. **


	14. Chapter 14

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 14

Rodney stretched the tight gloves over his hands, eased them into the crevices between his fingers, and grimaced at the oppressive feel of the latex as it clung to his skin. It was a mystery to him how John had been able to recognise anyone behind the masks and _fetching_ head gear, especially as from what Carson told him, the images he'd recalled so far appeared to have been vague at best.

"So you know the script, Rodney?" Carson asked, giving him a look that said he knew that he did, but didn't trust him to follow it.

"Of course…Sit with him, see if he recognises me, then tell him what our relationship is." Rodney grimaced. "If you want my opinion, Carson, that sounds like a bunch of crap to me. Why don't we just tell him what he wants to know?"

"Rodney!" Beckett raised his voice, then Rodney saw his friend fighting to curb his irritation. "Look, son, at this stage we just want him to reacquaint himself with the faces he already remembers. Teyla got on fine, so did Ronon, and I'm sure you will too…just don't go into too much detail about his life here." "Carson paused for a moment, then Rodney felt his hand on his shoulder. "If possible, I would like the rest of the Colonel's memories to return on their own…especially the more traumatic ones. He's been through the mill and needs friends, people who can help him find his way back…his team - understand?"

"I'm not a complete moron, Carson," he huffed indignantly, then stopped for a moment, feeling suddenly nervous when he caught sight of his sick friend through the glass. "Is he going to be okay?" Rodney asked, anxiously.

A slow smile grew on Carson's face. "I hope so. His grafts seem to be healing well, as are his other physical wounds, and his cognitive abilities appear to be unscathed. It's his mental health we need to monitor, but I'm hopeful if we take this nice and easy, the colonel will be back to normal and tearing a strip off you before too long."

"Right, as if I'd let him get away with that." Rodney pulled up his mask, then turned to his oldest friend on base. "Actually, Carson, I really wish he would - anything to show he was _back. _Right, okay…well, here goes."

The lights were so dim as he entered the small room that at first Rodney thought John was asleep, but then he caught a twitch of the familiar dark spiky hair.

"Hi, so you're Rodney…right?" John asked, and Rodney lowered his chin to meet his gaze, Sheppard now lying propped on his side.

"So you know my name?" Rodney felt his spirits lift at the thought his friend recognised him.

"Yup, Beckett told me you were coming to see me," John responded, in a matter of fact tone.

"Oh…"

Rodney tried to hide his disappointment, but realised by John's next response it must have shown in his voice. "Hey, don't be offended. I can remember faces, voices, but names are a complete blank. Although if it means anything, there is something familiar about you – but I have to admit those masks don't help.

"Well, let me introduce myself. I'm Doctor Rodney McKay, the foremost expert in wormhole physics, and the resident genius here. If I do say so myself, it's thanks to my expertise Atlantis is still standing…well, of course, I know that's the wrong term, given the fact that you can't actually _stand_ in space. And, oh yeah, I'm also one of your team," he quipped, then realised too late he sounded more like the resident clown, jabbering on like a lunatic, but unable to stop himself.

"Okay…you're _definitely_ the guy from my visions. Even in my dreams I couldn't get you to shut up. So…how did I get to become friends with a smartass like you anyhow?" John responded, deadpan, and Rodney felt hurt, until he caught a flash of mischief behind the tired hazel eyes.

"Hey, Mister 'I could have been in Mensa - you're no slouch in that department yourself, flyboy," he retorted, before he could stop himself.

"Okay, now that is interesting. You're telling me I'm smart, and I can fly?" John gave him a quizzical look, and Rodney swallowed hard, realising he'd only been in the room for less than five minutes and had already broken his promise to Beckett. But it was too late to stop now.

"Not as smart as me of course, but yeah, despite how you act sometimes…there is a brain beneath that thick skull. As for the flying thing - you're the best pilot I've ever know."

"Cool…that's good to know. Well, I think you've just answered my question, McKay," John replied with a wry smile. "Apart from that big guy, Ronon, who didn't say much, you're the first person not to treat me with kid gloves since I woke up - thanks."

"No problem, although you do realise I'll get my ass kicked by Carson when he finds out," Rodney said as he plopped down in the chair beside the bed, smiling under his mask, relieved to see traces of the _old_ John were still there.

John's eyes clouded over, as he answered in a cracked voice. "Well I'm guessing Beckett's worried I'm going to have a meltdown because of what happened on Etraska. Wha…what they did to me wasn't pretty, but the pain I could deal with – kind of. It was losing my identity, my very sense of self, which freaked me out most. Not even being able to remember my name left me feeling lost, I still do, as I know so little about my own life, or myself, but at least I was right about one thing – I knew from the start I was never a slave."

Rodney squirmed at his haunted expression, and he watched John's knuckles go as white as his face, as he gripped the sheets. It wasn't like Sheppard to reveal his feelings, but the small, yet visible display of emotion showed just how much his friend must have suffered, and still was.

Then in an instant the look vanished, replaced by a grimace as Sheppard hissed as he shuffled in bed, then asked, "Where did we first meet anyway?"

A wave of relief washed over Rodney as he wasn't good with emotional stuff, and was glad John had steered away from it. So, leaning back into the chair, he finally relaxed. "Well, it all began when you sat on a chair…"

ooooOoooo

Already tired of his new prison, John felt bad about making the unkind comparison between the warm, sterile room and the dark, chilly cell where he'd been held, but he was bored. Fed up with still being confined even though he was now free, he was desperate to leave the confines of his room and escape. In the castle he'd only seen glimpses of light, but John longed to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, and couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a sunrise or felt the exhilaration as the cool breeze whipped his hair, sending shivers up and down his spine.

Though grateful to be home, he still didn't feel like he belonged. In a weird way, despite his memories beginning to return, John felt as if he was sitting on the sidelines watching someone else's life. Like a spectator, he saw the images roll past like scenes from a movie…a sometimes bad, really scary horror flick at times, but even then he didn't feel connected with the main players, or the man in the black BDUs.

Part of him guessed his isolation wasn't helping his state of mind, and John hoped his eventual release to the main ward would help him reconnect with his home and his friends - at the very least he could then see their faces, not just a pair of eyes. He knew he was being impatient, and the rational side of his brain told him it was necessary to let the skin grafts take, but he was so tired of it all. The constant pain, even muted by drugs, was dragging him down, and he longed to be free of it, desperate to escape not just from the misery of discomfort, but also the hideous memories of his brutal treatment on Etraska.

He'd told Beckett he was coping with it, and in many respects he was, but the horrific pain of the sadistic whipping was something he would never forget, though strangely, it was the betrayal of someone he trusted, the man who had turned from friend to enemy, that bothered him most.

It was ironic that while he was desperate to remember more, Hamlane's interrogation was the one episode John wanted most to forget. Interrogation, what a sick freaking joke that had been…he'd been tortured. Hamlane had asked him the same pointless question time and time again, for which there was only one answer - _John Sheppard isn't dead, because he's right here in front of you. _Except he hadn't said it because it would only have made Hamlane madder. So, he'd fought against the pain in the only way he knew how, by crawling deep inside and letting his rage against the injustice give him the strength he needed to endure. And he'd managed to keep his feelings hidden and hadn't let the bastard know how much he was hurting…at least at first.

Despite leading him to believe he'd been on his side, when it came down to it, Hamlane took the word of that lying bastard Ballam over him, his face scarlet, as he'd beaten him. Fists to start with, those big powerful hands pounding holes in his gut, his ribs, and his face, then, frustrated at his silence, he'd subjected him to a caning. The deep stinging pain as the rod slashed deep welts into his body was agonising, but nothing compared to the unbearable torture as the red hot poker had melted away his flesh. John remembered screaming until he was hoarse, but deep down he knew even then, that his cries weren't only down to the red hot flames that had rippled across his chest…the anguish of Hamlane's betrayal hurt nearly as much.

The memory haunted him, but worse, it made him question the whole meaning of trust. He'd trusted Hamlane, and had truly believed he would help him, but in the end…

John didn't want to believe his friends, the people whose visions had given him hope during those long, dark days, would let him down, but how could he really know? The truth was, while he recognised them, he didn't really _know_ them, and all the experiences he'd been told they'd shared were just like hearing stories from a book. He listened to their words, understood what they meant, but couldn't remember anything about those times, or the way he'd felt. Rodney, Teyla and Ronon, were still in many ways strangers, and while he did feel some connection to them, John was only too aware they were only human, and therefore just as capable of betrayal like Hamlane.

In many ways John realised he was also a stranger to himself. He was a pilot, one of the best they'd told him, and apparently he was military commander of this base, yet the clue was in the title…military. John guessed he must have fought in battle, therefore it only figured he would've taken lives, so how many men had he killed, and what kind of soldier was he? Was he one of those men who enjoyed killing for the sake of it, or, was he the sort of man who coldly took a life then never gave his victim another thought?

Scars, though not from Etraska, littered his body. Of course he'd noticed them before and could tell they'd been serious injuries, but didn't know how he'd got them or why. They were yet more pieces of the puzzle Beckett was trying to protect him from, the doctor deliberately limiting the information he received, fearing if he learned too much, too soon, it might tip his beleaguered brain over the edge. John appreciated his concern, but was growing increasingly frustrated and longed to learn more, convinced the more he knew, the sooner he would begin to feel normal…whatever the hell that was. For now, he was still a prisoner, not just in this room but also his own body, and deep down John realised he had to be patient - he didn't have a choice.

ooooOoooo

"John, what are you still doing here? Carson's been looking all over for you!" Teyla rushed outside and saw him shivering, his hair fluttering in the breeze, but wearing a rosy glow on his face and looking better than she'd seen him in some time. He also looked happier, and it warmed her heart to see her friend relishing being outdoors on his favourite balcony.

"He's fine, Teyla" Ronon answered, sounding amused, the look he shared with John conspiratorial, as she moved to tuck the extra blanket hanging from the back of the wheelchair firmly around his shoulders.

John chuckled slightly. "Listen to the man, Teyla, I'm _fine, _and I can stand a little cold air, its being stuck in the infirmary I can't stand," he pointed out, wearing that familiar puppy dog expression he used when he wanted something.

Teyla shook her head and stood back placing her hands on her hips, knowing that when the two men joined forces, it was already a lost cause. "Okay, a few more minutes. What is that you're reading? Carson said you weren't allowed to read mission reports," she asked, concerned as she spied the laptop perched on his knees.

Ronon interrupted by getting to his feet. "Think it's time I left. See you later, Sheppard." Then he turned to Teyla. "Will you take him back?"

She nodded. "Of course…Ronon, did you give John this?" But she just saw the flash of a sneaky smile as the Satedan sauntered away.

As she went to peer over his shoulder, John snapped the lid shut, and raised his eyes to hers. "It wasn't your fault…"

Stunned, Teyla held onto the rail for a moment and looked out onto the towering spires, allowing the fresh breeze to cool the flush on her face before she turned to face him. "What do you remember?" She asked, curious.

"Nothing, but I've read your report, and I know you wouldn't skimp on the details," John pointed out, his reasoning annoyingly accurate. "Look, Teyla, from what I've learned about myself, that's the kind of dumb ass thing I would do." He gave her a lopsided smile. "And we both know neither you nor anyone else could have talked me out of it, though from what I've learned, your actions are what probably kept me alive."

"I also left you alone in the desert…" Teyla wanted to look away, but he held her gaze then took her hand.

"You did what you had to do in order to save me and the kid - it wasn't your fault some freaking psycho came along who recognised me and wanted revenge." He let out a deep sigh. "I attract bad luck, and when it comes down to it, it wasn't just me who suffered because of Ballam's actions - you're as much a victim of his deceit as I was. The way I see it, it's going to take a while, but I will recover. But you…you've got to stop beating yourself up over this, okay?" John squeezed her hand, then let it go. "Now, let's get out of here - I'm freezing!"

"I'm still sorry though," she said, her voice cracking.

"I know, but you needn't be." John blew on his hands, then rubbed them on his arms. "C'mon. How about a ride to the mess for an illicit cup of coffee and one of Martha's chocolate chip cookies before Beckett sends out the dogs?"

Teyla shook her head as a smile pulled at the edges of her mouth. "Now, John…you know that Carson is just looking out for you."

"Yeah, I know, but he's going to give me a lecture when I get back, so seeing as I'm already on the run, I may as well make it worth his while!"

ooooOoooo

John slumped onto his bunk and raked a shaking hand through his hair. He felt achy and exhausted after the short walk from the infirmary, but it felt good to be back in his quarters, although painfully aware he wasn't free of the damned place yet. Daily wound checks, meds though not as strong as before, and of course counselling would be part of his life for some time to come, still, he was glad to be _home_, back to his own bed, around his own stuff, and for a while anyway, his own space. The last thing he ever thought he'd say after spending so much time alone in his cell, but the silence was welcome after the constant activity around the ward, and well meaning friends who'd never left his side. All of which John appreciated after everything he'd been through, but now he needed time to think, time to get straight how he was going to deal with the events on Etraska, and time to decide what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life.

The new psychiatrist, Doctor Morris, had told him he needed to confront his feelings about what happened, and for once he had…sort of. John knew he could never forgive Ballam at all, and felt no remorse on hearing that the Lord Protector died soon after he'd been rescued, although he had been surprised to learn that Hamlane, a former slave, was the new Lord Protector. John reckoned it must have caused Garmend a lot of grief to make a decision like that, given the old man's attitude, but when it came right down to it, what other choice did he have - either leave Etraska to a man who had effectively sealed his death warrant, or hand over succession to his illegitimate son…there was no one else.

The way he felt about Hamlane - bitter. Hamlane betrayed him, but John gave the man some kudos for emancipating the slaves. Lorne had told him he'd set everyone free right after taking office, instead, offering paid employment for those who wished to stay. Etraska was now officially an ally, and Atlantis, provided them with regular medical care, with Woolsey acting as mentor to assist Hamlane adjust to his new role. John had nearly choked when Woolsey told him that the bastard sent his _regards_, and it had taken all his self-control not to out him for what he'd done. But the SOB was guiding his people into a new life, and at the end of the day what was more important, helping Etraska recover from years of oppression, or his desire for revenge?

He was freaked out by the whole thing, but John knew if he'd revealed Hamlane's part in his persecution Woolsey would have withdrawn the offer, but what would be the point? The man had been obeying orders at the time, something John partly understood, but he could never condone the vehemence of his assault. Blind obedience had never been his way, his own butt kicked many times for standing up to authority when he'd thought the command dumb, or just plain wrong, and he didn't like to think he would ever lose his cool the way Hamlane lost his. The fact was, John had foolishly believed he'd followed the same code, but when it came down to the wire, the former Chamberlain had chosen loyalty to an oppressive Master, instead of doing the right thing.

John was ashamed for once comparing the ex-Chamberlain with his real friends, the people who'd proved their loyalty and affection by supporting him during the long painful, boring weeks spent in recovery. In the beginning, he'd barely remembered them, but they never gave up on him, one of them always there when he'd awoken, either Rodney, Teyla, or Ronon, sitting quietly, when in so much pain he'd been too miserable to talk. Then later, as he'd started to feel better they'd kept him amused with endless games of chess, gossip from the base and movie 'nights' around his bed - true friends who hadn't left his side, and he wondered what the hell he'd ever done to deserve them.

As for Ballam, apparently the former noble hadn't been seen or heard of since that day, though if his sorry ass wasn't lying dead, left to rot in the dungeon as Ronon thought, John reckoned the bastard better dig the biggest hole he could and jump in, as his buddy, even more than him, was looking forward to_ meeting_ him again.

Etraska was just one more fuck up in his life that he'd consigned to the dark, closed box hidden deep within his soul, a raw open wound that would linger for a long while to come, but just like every other time John knew it would eventually pass, and in the meantime he would do what he always did - suck it up, put on his game face, and not let anyone know how much he was still hurting.

He thought of Streya and smiled. She'd been the only one who showed him any kindness during the whole hellish nightmare, and he wished her happiness. Lorne had told him that she, along with Durand were intending to leave as soon as they'd earned some money, but she'd sent her love, along with his jacket, after his last visit. John was glad she'd got over her crush and found someone to love, but maybe if he was honest, felt a little hurt that the pretty young girl had got over him so quickly. Even so, after the events of the last few months John wondered if he should do the same thing. He'd been in uniform for more than half of his life, and while he didn't regret the sacrifices he'd made for his country he was tired, a bone weary feeling that had nothing to do with his injuries and now he just didn't know if he could live this kind of life any more...

For one thing he was over forty, and didn't bounce back from injury the way he used to, his body really slow to heal this time, with long weeks of recovery still lying ahead. John reckoned Lorne was doing a great job in his place, so maybe it was time to let go of the reins for good, and find himself a Streya to settle down with, but someone closer his age, maybe another Nancy if he was lucky. It had been his job that caused the rift between him, but John knew if he resigned his commission, things would be different. He had money, his dad's inheritance, and could finally set up the company he always dreamed of - building prototype planes.

John wondered who this paragon could be, grinning at the old cliché of the perfect wife in a perfect house surrounded by a perfectly straight white picket fence, with a couple of little Sheppard's running round the perfect lawn…

He would miss Atlantis, of course, really miss her, not to mention the family he'd made here, though everyone was settling down; Rodney had Jennifer, Teyla…Kanaan and Torren, and John knew that Ronon was dating Amelia Banks. Truth was, everything was changing around here, especially him after his ordeal. More cynical than he used to be, definitely less trusting, and the next time a '_Kolya'_ came across his path…there would be no second chances. John reckoned they might miss him to start with, at least he hoped they would, but knew at the end of the day he wouldn't really be _missed_. He suddenly realised he'd answered his own question - it was time to move on.

"John, are you alright? I rang the buzzer but got no answer…are you sure you're quite well?" John lifted his head to see Teyla, looking concerned, but she wasn't alone. A young boy was with her.

"I'm fine, Teyla…good in fact. I was just deep in thought, that's all." He was mildly surprised to see her standing there, but wasn't prepared to share his plans with anyone just yet. "And who's this?" John asked smiling as he scanned the kid's face, but it wasn't one of the Athosian children, and he drew a blank.

He was a cute kid, with light brown hair and dark eyes that never left his face. John reckoned he couldn't have been more than five or six, and was clearly shy, clinging onto her skirt, although he seemed to be struggling to find the courage to come over.

Teyla ran her fingers though the child's hair as she spoke to him. "I know you still have no memory of what happened on Pallonia, John, and may never have, but this is Elient…the boy you saved."

John was stunned, and couldn't speak, as he looked at the child, trying to remember, but failing. Then after a moment's silence, Teyla continued. "Elient has been living with his new family on the mainland; you know them, John - Arudnla and Morlande – Halling's sister and her husband. They haven't been blessed with children, so were thrilled when Elient agreed to go and live with them - but he never forgot you, and when he heard you were feeling better, he was desperate to come and thank you."

John was confused as although he couldn't recall a damn thing about that mission, he understood the boy was deaf, so was surprised when the young kid hesitantly stumbled over, and spoke to him in a clipped but clear voice. "Thank…you."

He saw Teyla with a large tear rolling down her cheek, and he could feel a lump in his own throat. "I'm glad you're happy here, Elient…and thank you for coming to see me." John spoke clearly so the boy could read his lips, then took his hand and gathered him into a hug. He grimaced at the pain of the small hands gripping onto his back, but it was worth - all of it.

"When did he get the cochlear implant, Teyla?" he asked after spotting the small device protruding from behind his ear.

"A few weeks after he arrived here," she said, then went on to explain. "Once Carson realised Elient would be a suitable candidate for the procedure he applied to the SGC. At first though, he couldn't get permission for the expense, as the IOA refused on the grounds that Elient isn't part of the establishment, but in the end Mr Woolsey paid for the treatment out of his own pocket, and has offered to pay for whatever else he needs."

Then Teyla turned and gave him such an intense look it was almost as if she'd guessed what he'd been planning. "Those are the first words he wanted to learn, John, as Elient has been desperate to tell you how grateful he is. You saved his life, just as you make a difference to all the lives here. When you were missing, Atlantis just wasn't the same place without you..."

"What's the hold up?" Rodney snarked, checking his watch as he barged into the room. "The pizza is getting cold and I only have 'Inception' on loan from Zelenka for another day."

John was struggling with embarrassment, and more than ever he needed time alone. "Thanks, Rodney but I think I'll pass…I kinda wanted an early night," he muttered, although quickly realised from the determination on McKay's face that wasn't gonna happen.

"Move it, Sheppard. There's no way you're spending your first night's escape from Stallag 13 sleeping," Rodney retorted, sounding impatient. "Once we drop the kid off with his parents, it's down to the rec' room, 'cause if you think I made a deal with Beckett to allow you a beer for nothing…you have another thing coming. When John looked puzzled, Rodney's horrified expression made him laugh. "You won't believe what he expects me to do. Seriously - you _really_ don't wanna know."

John suppressed a flinch as he hauled himself up, still sore but all thoughts of hitting the sack gone. If he was honest, glad that McKay had forced the issue, as he was now looking forward to some junk food, good company and not forgetting that beer.

Later, surrounded by his friends, John felt a warmth, nothing to do with the climate, start to melt the chill that had started all those months ago in the cell. He'd been to hell and back…and lived, but why? John guessed there must be a reason for that, just like there had to have been a reason why he'd felt drawn to that chair in Antarctica. Up till then his life had had no real meaning except for his love of flying - apart from that, he'd been going nowhere fast. His career had been in ruins – frozen, just like the wasteland where he'd been leading a futile life.

John remembered his father had once told him he was worthless, and for a very long time he'd believed him, yet here his life meant something. It was dangerous to be sure, but each scar littering his body told its own story…Teyla's rescue, Keller's too, and now Elient's, times when he'd made a difference, times when he'd proved his father wrong. John knew he wasn't perfect, and wasn't the only one who saved lives, but he was suddenly aware that if he gave up what he had, he'd be making the biggest mistake of his life.

Atlantis was not just his workplace…she was home, a place where he'd finally fitted in, where he meant something to the folks here not just because of what he did, but who he was. They were good people who trusted him, and forgave him even when he got it wrong - friends who meant so much more than the family who'd never tried to understand him.

John drained his beer, wishing he could have a chaser. but accepting with all the meds, it was way too risky. There would be time for that later when he was fully healed, just like there would be time to pursue his other dreams when the moment was right, for now though, his place was here as long as fate decreed. Still, he doubted he would ever settle down, aware that in some ways he would always be a solitary man, but knew he'd never be entirely alone, as the people sitting beside him would always have his back…

THE END

**Well that's the tale told and I hope you enjoyed it. Many thanks to those of you who have left reviews, and to all those who followed the story. A****nd please, I would appreciate it if you would review this chapter and share your thoughts with me. **

**A very special thanks goes to my fabulous beta shepgirl72 who sorted out my mistakes, and not forgetting the birthday girl Sterenyk Strey for whom this story was written. Thanks, Strey for giving me the two great prompts without which this story would never have seen the light of day!**


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